Akame ga Kill: Conquest of Craft
by Deathbattlewatcher5
Summary: Betrayed by the Empire he once served and his life robbed from him by the Empire's Strongest, the man once known as Victor Craft now sets out an a path of vengeance with a collection of powers. As both sides of an intense war come into conflict with him, they will witness what kind of man it takes to be motivated purely by revenge, and revenge alone.
1. Three Awakenings

It was darkness that he suddenly saw.

But did that even make sense, he found himself suddenly thinking. If you had been previously been seeing nothing beforehand, wouldn't that mean that he would have been seeing darkness in the first place, instead of only just noticing it now?

Maybe he had just been paying little attention to his blackened vision. Or maybe he was now dead, his mind forcibly taken out of his living self and suddenly placed in the blackness of the afterlife. He didn't pay much attention to the various religions he had some knowledge on, but he was pretty sure none of them encompassed just empty darkness. Unless it was some kind of special hell inflicted on the worst of sinners; eternal darkness; a mind-twisting isolation perhaps?

No…it wasn't that. Couldn't be, since a void wouldn't be giving him the kind of sensation he was only just now beginning to fell, one of something pressing against his back. More accurately, however, it was _him_ that pressing against something. But in a neutral way, not forcing his body against the flat surface, more like lying down against it. It felt smooth and slightly damp. It wasn't the only sensation either, as there seemed to be drips of liquid falling on his face.

If he only he could see where he was…

A swell of mirthless humour escaped his mouth as he realized his idiocy.

_If only he could see_ indeed.

His eyes were closed. He had completely forgotten about the fact that a person had to make the conscious choice to open their eyes. Strange how he remembered other equally trivial stuff, such as kinds of touch, how many religions there were and the concept of stupidity.

Maybe I really do possess a short attention span he thought before opening his eyes, the simplicity and familiarity of the action completely contrasting his previous cluelessness.

What awaited him was a vision of the full moon, high in the night sky. Surrounding it was a ring made of partially shattered boards of wood, from which the drops of water were falling. He titled his head to see the boards of wood extended even further as part of a vast wooden floor. He himself was evidently on the underside of it.

"I wonder what made that hole?" He muttered curiously. He suddenly became silent again as he realized he had just spoken out loud; he was surprised at how smooth, yet casual it sounded.

God, what was up with this mind if he didn't even remember what his own voice sounded like? Maybe the events, if any, that had led to him ending up in this hole could shed some light on his hit-and-miss memory recall.

He ran his vision ran across the rest of the area he was in; it appeared to be cave-like in nature, with the walls shining due to condensation on the stone surface. The entire reminded him of a bowl; no way out except for straight up.

Guess he couldn't stay on his back forever after all. He realized the possibility had been brewing away in the back of his mind, he just hadn't been focusing on it; sounded easy, but no-one could spend their lives on their backs forever.

Almost experimentally in nature, he drew his arms back to his sides so that he could push himself up into a sitting position. Shaggy black hair fell over his eyes as he sat up, and he blew it out of the way. Next, he drew his legs up so that his knees pressed against his chest, before leaning forward off his behind and onto his feet, extending his legs so that he was fully standing up.

Then he promptly stumbled forward at his new equilibrium.

"Whoa, okay!" he exclaimed, "Steady now, steady!"

As he stumbled forward, he placed his hand on the rock wall to steady himself. After closing his eyes and taking a breath, he felt his balance return.

"Okay," he muttered, looking back around, "now how do I…" he trailed off when he realized that his hand didn't feel as though it was pressed flat against the wall as it should have been. His head turned back to see a shocking sight; his fingers were _embedded_ in the stone wall. He blinked in surprise before soundlessly drawing his arm back in surprise. To his ever increasing surprise, the holes his fingers had made, or at least should have, were missing.

He looked at his hand in surprise, and that was when his surprise reached its peak.

His fingers seemed too been shimmering. Almost ghost-like in manner, a thin layer of icy white mist hovering near his near-transparent fingers.

Oddly enough, he wasn't scared. Surprised, certainly, but not scared. As he turned his hand, he watched as it returned to normal. Well, as normal as a pale hand could be anyway. He then turned his attention back to the stone wall, before extending his hand once again to put it against the stone surface. Now he saw that this was the instance they became ghost-like, the tips of the fingers passing through the stone, but no further than that. His excitement growing, he did the same with the other hand, only this time a little higher on the surface.

Then, with a little inhale, he reached up further with the first-placed hand, phased it back into the wall, placed on foot against the wall, and then the other, so that he was effectively clinging to the surface with his hands. A grin spread across his face and he looked down to make sure he was actually lifting himself off the ground, realizing the tips of his feet were also phasing into the wall. With a growing sense of euphoria, he continued to climb upwards with his phasing limbs. It all felt so natural to him, the process of climbing upwards, so he was almost saddened when he reached the top.

Gripping one of the broken planks of wood, he pulled himself out of the hole. Standing up, he looked around and found himself to be in some sort of study, and a ruined one at that; the desk was shoved into one corner and papers, some torn, where scattered all over the room. Several plaques hung haphazardly on the scarred walls; that was, if they weren't lying on the floor. He walked over to one of them and picked it up, turning it over in his hands so that he could read the raised letters;

_Certificate of Profession, Doctor Victor Craft_

His eyes then fell to a cracked, framed picture on the ground, and this took his attention much more completely; it was of a man, a woman, and two young girls all standing together. The eldest looking girl had the man's hand on her shoulders and the youngest one, holding what appeared to be a raggedy rabbit doll, held the hand of the woman. They both had chestnut brown hair and soft round faces, likely inherited from the woman who was most likely their mother, especially since they didn't look a thing like the father; his hair was dark and his face, whilst handsome, was only so in a harsh, angular way.

There was also the fact that whilst the woman and two girls had genuine smiles on their faces, the man's didn't seem real; only forced as part of a façade.

"…"

A gunshot suddenly rang out, followed by a cry, causing him to tear his eyes off the photo in the direction of the gunshot, which had come from behind the closed door. Placing the plaque on the desk, he walked around the hole and towards the door, opening it a tiny amount.

What awaited him was large hall, filled with upturned tables and corpses, some fresh and still bleeding out, some lying in dried pools of blood.

One of the still bleeding corpses had a couple of uniformed, helmeted, gun-toting figures standing over it. To him, they looked like soldiers.

"You idiot, you were meant to shoot him out in the courtyard _before_ he opened the doors to this room!"

"I just thought it would have made more sense to do it in here, so that the sound of the gunshot didn't scare off any other of the arriving servants."

The first soldier to have talked pursed his lips, before shrugging.

"Well, good point."

"Also," the second soldier let out a small smirk, which was visible due to his helmet uniquely lacking a mouth guard, "it'd be easier to do it in here so we wouldn't have to go through the trouble of dragging their body inside."

The first soldier sniggered.

"Yeah, that's another good point."

"C'mon," motioned the third soldier to the door, who had allowed himself a similar laugh, "We'd better get back outside to wait for the rest of the servants. But in case another one of them is able to get too far away before _someone_ can't pull the trigger in time, one of us should stay here."

"I'll do it." Said the first soldier, so the other two nodded in thanks and moved towards the double doors of the hall.

All whilst _he_ watched from behind the door, his fingers gripping the wood. This time, there was no ghostly aura from them; deep grooves were left in the door with his fingers alone.

There was some sort of deep rage towards these uniformed men, one he quite couldn't place. What he could place was what that deep rage wanted to make him do.

He wanted to _kill_ these men. And he would start with this one. How, he didn't know, until he saw the sword hanging off his waist. A surprise attack was the way to go here; take his sword and kill him with it, and then he'd go deal with the other two, his mind racing through the best courses of action to take.

Making sure the solitary soldier wasn't going to turn around after observing his casual body language, he moved quietly from behind the door and across the floor, blatantly ignoring the puddles of blood he was treading in. Soon, he was just a short bound away from the soldier, who still hadn't turned around. A smile, excited at the prospect of taking the life of the soldier, found its way onto his face as he took another step forward.

_Creak_

The sound erupted into the hall as his foot came down onto a single creaking floor board and the soldier whipped around, his eyes widening at the solitary figure who had snuck up on him. The soldier began to bring his gun around, but in an instinctive action that took even him by surprise his aggressor lunged forward and swatted his gun out of the soldier's hand with shocking strength before making a grab for the sword. The soldier recovered fast, however, and grabbed the attacker by the collar of whatever kind of shirt he was wearing, spun him around and slammed him into a still standing table. The attacker attempted to recover, but the soldier gave him barely any room to, punching him in the chest and knocking the wind out his lunges.

With growing confidence that his military training was overwhelming the attacker, the soldier went for another punch, and was rewarded with shock when his assaulter brought his arm up and caught the punch with his forearm. Before the soldier could react, the attacker's other hand shot out and struck him in the face.

Not only did this send the man flying backwards, but for the briefest of moments, when the fist connected with his skull it had glowed the familiar ghostly white as it had done when the attacker had awakened in the hole.

The moment it did, a surge of knowledge flooded through the attacker's mind and a gasp came out of his mouth as he put a hand to his forehead, pushing off the table he had been slammed into to stand back up.

"Ah…FUCK!" screamed the soldier as he writhed on the ground, clutching his nose as a rapidly increasing flow of blood came from it. He glared up at his attacker with anger in his eyes, "You old piece of shit, you have any idea who you're messing with? What I'm a part of?"

The attacker fixed him, suddenly, with an unblinking gaze and the soldier's mouth froze before he could continue ranting.

"Your name is Nennox and you're a member of the Imperial Army. You signed up 11 years ago and have been endlessly brown-nosing anyone you think could help you advance up the ranks. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't and sometimes you've pushed them so much they straight up demote you. You've made a sum total of 11 movements upwards and 12 down and you're hoping that by doing an outstanding job here, directing your fellow soldiers and taking the unsavoury responsibilities, all to paint the image of yourself as a hard-working fellow worthy of a higher pay check," he leaned down and stared closer at the stupefied soldier, "Is that who you are?"

"I…I…"

"I'll take your gobsmacked expression as a yes," the attacker said, his words forming far quickly and efficiently, as they had done at the earlier listing of Nennox's career aspirations. He crouched down in front of Nennox and extended his hand towards his face, his following sentence given as a whisper "So I'll see what else I can take."

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

One stream of bullets tore into his outstretched hand, before another into his side. He was sent flying backwards to smash onto the ground, his body unnaturally twisted and the last thing he saw were the other two soldiers running over towards him before his eyes closed and he was swept into darkness.

Until his eyes shot back open and he sat up, fast as a bolt, a wave of nausea sweeping over him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but thankfully found that no vomit was coming up. He then ran the same hand over his other hand, certain he had seen it get shredded by gunfire. It was now completely fine.

"What…?" he stopped his exclamation short, unable to escape the creeping feeling of déjà vu as he became aware of his surroundings. He twisted his head around to see that he was back in the same cavern he had first awoken in.

That…made sense.

He stopped moving.

How the hell did it make sense? He didn't know how he was one minute being killed and then somehow back in the same place he had first wakened.

But at the same time, it felt like he should now, and because of that his efficient state of mind returned, the one that had arisen when he was picking about that soldier's life.

_The soldier._

He looked back up to see the familiar hole in the floor which he knew led to a study. Where they still there? Or was this some kind of time-loop, like the kind he had read about in his books on-

Hang on; he had books on the subject of time's physics.

_One problem at a time_, he thought. If those soldiers were still there, he had lost the element of surprise, and ghostly phasing hands and feet aside, he had no weapon to use.

Until his eye caught sight of something twinkling in the darkness, buried in the ground about an arm's reach away; something that led to a smile spreading over his face.

"Who the fuck is that?" shouted Nennox, as he kept the handkerchief pressed over his bleeding nose.

"Whoever he is, he did a real number on you," chuckled another of the soldiers, Maidez, earning him a glare from Nennox as their superior, Sgt Hammay, looked suspiciously at the face-down corpse.

"He's not dressed like the rest of the servants," he noted, before turning to Maidez, "Maidez, turn him over."

Maidez was about to complain to Hammay that _he_ could simply do it, before remembering that he was a sergeant, and a soldier questioning a sergeant wasn't a wise choice. With the muzzle of his gun, Maidez flipped the corpse over onto its back, noting quietly how light it seemed.

All three men observed the corpse.

"Hey, he looks familiar," noted Maidez.

"Yeah," Nennox briefly forgot the pain in his nose and squinted, before shock fell over his face, "No way…he's dead…"

"Certainly looks it," stated Nennox.

"No, I mean he was dead _before_!"

"Before what?"

"Before…_this_!" Nennox gestured at his own broken nose, which then leaked a clump of bloodied phlegm. Hammay swallowed back a shudder of revolt.

"Well then, you going just sit there throwing a tantrum, who is he?"

Hammay's head suddenly snapped backwards and a spray of blood leaped into the air at the crack of a gunshot. Maidez and Nennox stared at where he had been standing only a second ago before they actually reacted, Maidez swinging his gun up to point it in the direction the gunshot only to meet a similar fate as his sergeant, this time twisting around as a bullet lodged itself in his left eye.

That left Nennox by himself to turn and see the man who he had claimed to have died and then seen die right before his eyes standing in the open door; he wore a long, black leather coat, held together over his chest with similar leather straps which hung down partially cover his grey trousers and nearly his simple leather shoes. His face was slender and pale, his hair coloured dark and cut short.

He held a gun in his hand, which was now pointed at the stunned Nennox, who believed he must be seeing a ghost.

"Who am I?"

Nennox decided to answer the formally asked question, to do one last thing before the end of his life came.

"You're Craft. Victor Craft."

"Do you know what's going on with me?"

"I don't."

He nodded, before pulling the hammer on his handgun back.

"One last thing; you just said I was 'killed' a while ago; who by and what for?"

Nennox numbly replied;

"The Empire's Strongest; General Esdeath. On suspicion of high treason."

Victor Craft smiled as new hate coursed through his veins.

"Thank you," the trigger was pulled and a third shot rang out.

A thousand miles away, General Esdeath, the Empire's Strongest, awoke. She stared at the roof of her four poster bed for a moment before breathing out slowly. The sleep paralysis leaving her body, Esdeath rose into a sitting position, supporting herself on her palms before she turned her head to look at the notebook resting on the drawer beside the bed. Inside of it were the rough illustrations of the one she loved and that made a smile form on her face. But it faded when she turned back to look in front of her and out the window.

Turning herself around so that her slender legs hung off the edge of the bed, Esdeath got to her feet and walked over to the window, the reflection showing her own face back at her. It was plastered with an expression that she didn't usually have; one of uncertainty.

It wasn't to say this seldom felt emotion scared her; quite the contrary, it silently thrilled her that something had given her this feeling. But at the same time she knew that it was something to be wary off; what was it that was coming, the thing that had made her feel so uneasy?

Still, she thought to herself, letting a second smile cross her face, this time one that was devoid of any kind of love for another living thin, if it came, it came. It would become just another thing for her, the strong, to crush beneath her heel.


	2. Arrival and Departure

The carriage, pulled by two horses with grey coats, trundled up the dusty road lined by green leafed trees towards the estate, closer to the partially open gates.

The driver of the wagon looked over his shoulder at the passengers he was transporting.

"Alright, we're nearly there you lot, get ready!"

The passengers, wearing the common suits of the working class stirred from either half or total sleep, their efforts to arouse helped by those who had stayed awake during the ride.

The driver watched them under heavy lidded eyes. As per his occupation, he had overheard their various conversations during the travel and the nature of their excursion; they all worked for the owner of the estate they were rapidly approaching, primarily as cleaners and caretakers. There was even a chef or two amongst them. Lately, however, their workload hadn't been so heavy on account of an entire week passing since they had last been called to the manor. With their rents about to go unpaid, one member amongst them, on the behalf of his fellow workers, had gone to the Public Office to inquire the reason behind their master's lack of call. To their collective pleasant surprises, the issue had been resolved for them the very next day, and they had gotten an order from the master to come into work the very next day.

As much as the carriage driver had understood they were joyous they were getting back to work, he had honestly felt nothing but apathy for them. The issue was he had overheard so many stories, both struggles and victories, of the various travellers he transported he had become too adept at simply storing it away in his mind so whilst he still took in the information after hearing it, he had never dwelled on them again.

And he wasn't going to this time either, as he stopped by the gate to let the servants get off. Still, he did have a certain degree of happiness, but only for himself. After all, the servant's return to work meant that he was getting paid by them again, which would fill up the hole in his wallet left by their week long absence from work. Speaking of which, one of the servants was passing him the leather pouch filled with golden coins.

"Thanks Charon! See you next week."

_Oh yeah_, thought Charon the carriage driver_, they spend the week at the manor and only go home at the weekend_.

He took the money, gave a brisk business-based nod and tugged on his horses' reigns, setting out on his path back to the Capital. His horses may not be the fastest around, but they go at setting a solid pace and with that skill, were he to turn around the estate would be out of sight save for the cathedral-like spire that pointed to the sky from the estate's centre.

Charon shifted in his sitting position to get comfortable and reached out for the flask he kept on his belt, taking a quick swig.

His swig was interrupted by his horses coming to a sudden halt, letting out a panicked whinny each, causing his drink to go down the wrong way. Charon hacked on the water and tugged on the reigns.

"What's wrong with you two? Calm down!"

The horses didn't seem to hear him and continued to whip their heads back and forth.

"Oh for God's sake!" Charon leapt off the carriage and walked directly over to the animals, seizing one by the reigns closer by the horse's muzzle, "What's wrong with you two, there's nothing out there!"

Charon's last statement was instantly proven wrong when a crossbow bolt embedded itself through his neck. His eyes turned to look down at the shaft in his throat, his lips parted in a silent cry before he pitched forwards, his body left dangling from his horse thanks the reigns still wrapped around his hand.

Ignorant to the death of the man who had transported them, the servants walked across the courtyard towards where they knew they worked.

"Good to be back isn't it?" said one of the two chefs to one of the several cleaners, "Finally earn some more money."

"Don't you save up though?"

The chef, a stocky man with barely any hair on his head who went by the name of Manson, rubbed the back of his head ruefully.

"Guess I should have been. Problem is my favourite pub isn't cheap."

The cleaner he spoke to, the new girl named Liena, groaned in exasperation, having already heard of his comical vices on their travel here.

"You keep going to that pub to eat every night, you'll end up broke, job or no job."

Just before Manson could bemoan his own vices, he spotted a group of five people ahead of their own; people wearing grey uniforms and holding guns and swords.

"Hey…who are they?"

"Maybe they're new security." Joked another of the caretakers, although he couldn't stop jitters of nervousness course through his body. He evidently didn't like the piercing gazes of the armed men.

He wasn't the only one either, as Manson also possessed a bad feeling about the whole thing. Security guards didn't usually wear the uniforms of members of the Imperial Army.

"Is there anything we can help you boys with?" Manson called out as they neared, trying to keep calm and casual.

"Actually Sir, we're here to help you lot," said one of the men, putting his gun away and approaching Manson, his hand outstretched. Manson, relieved at the gesture of friendship, took the hand and shook it.

"Really; what with?"

The soldier's face turned serious and he cast a look over his shoulder at their surroundings.

"Bandits. We've gotten reports that they may have taken up resistance in the grounds around this place."

Manson took in a hiss of breath and also looked about, now wary of the possible danger more than ever. Seeing his discomfort, the soldier chuckled.

"Don't worry, with us around they won't be much of a problem. Why don't you lot get into the main hall over there. It's already been checked and we'll follow behind."

Manson nodded his thanks and called out to the other servants and they moved past the soldiers towards the main hall. As the soldier who had soothed Manson's worries watched, his fellow employee leaned in closer to keep their conversation private.

"Taking a page from Maidez's book ay?"

"Yeah, guy may be a smartass but he thinks practically, and I'm for one not going to spend more time than necessary dragging dead meat around."

"Just remember, we need to do it before they see what's in there."

"Yes I know," he touched the hilt of his sword and a smirk spread over his mouth, "Poor fools, I almost feel sorry for them."

Little did they know, Liena was discretely looking at their hushed conversation and decided to have one with Manson.

"What do you think they're laughing about?" she muttered.

"Well, everyone likes a joke," Manson shrugged.

"But if there are bandits in the area, shouldn't they be more on high alert?"

Manson's carefree grin began to fade as he scrutinized Liena closely.

"What's with the inquisitive attitude all of a sudden?"

"What, nothing!" Liena exclaimed as quietly as she could, "But have a weird feeling…"

Gunshots suddenly split the air and both the servants and soldiers shot down into crouching positions in shock, screams and shouts arising from the respective groups.

"What-what is that! Who's shooting, is it the bandits?" Manson exclaimed.

"Uh, maybe, just keep your heads down!" shouted the leading soldier, _What the hell are those idiots doing, they should have executed those servants before this lot arrived! There was a schedule! _he internally ranted.

"It came from the main hall!" shouted one of the servants. A third shot rang out and he and his fellow employees began to retreat from the direction they were originally heading. Only for the gun barrels of the soldiers to block their way.

"Hold it!" snapped the lead soldier.

"But why…!?"

"Shut up! On your knees! Now!"

Manson saw no trace of mercy in the soldier's eyes and in spite of his confusion obeyed, dropping to his knees and instinctively placing his hands behind his head interlocking his fingers. The rest of the shaken servants followed his example.

Once their order was carried out, the soldiers moved over to them, some keeping their guns trained on them whilst others kept a lock on the main hall.

"What should we do?" asked one of the two soldiers pointing their guns at the doors of the main hall.

His leader pondered for a moment before coming to a decision.

"We'll waste this lot first then go in there and see what the trouble is," ignoring the horrified exclamations of the servants he continued, "if it's those idiots' faults that they messed up their shots in there, then it's fair play out here."

"Wait, what have we done?" cried Manson, "Why are you going to execute us?"

"Because we have orders 'Sir'," the lead soldier retorted back, no trace of his fabricated helpfulness in his voice. It had been replaced by something else. "But I'll let you off having to see your friends die and do away with you first."

Manson's mouth clamped open and shut but no words came out, before staring at the ground wide-eyed, not believing what was happening to him. As the footsteps of one of the soldiers coming over, Manson could only swallow.

But then something drew his attention; out of the corner of his eye he saw Liena, who was kneeling besides him, discreetly tense her muscles as the soldier came closer.

Was she going to do something?

But then a noise drew the attention of everyone; their eyes turned to watch as the door to the main hall slowly creek open.

The sheer eeriness of the action sent a shiver through the hostages and captors, with the latter group turning their full attention to it, four guns trained on the opening piece of oak.

"General Hammay, is that you?" called the lead soldier, ready to draw his self-sharpening sword at a moment's notice.

No reply came, save for the continuous creak of the door on its hinges, which completed its swing open to reveal…darkness.

"The hell…" muttered one the soldiers, "What is this, some sort of joke?"

"Or maybe it's a ghost," another said, rattles of unease still within his bones. In spite of his comment clearly meant to convey his own joylessness, it still earned him a look of contempt from their de facto leader.

"Well since you're such an expert, you can go take a look. You as well," he indicated towards another soldier, but less harshly. Making sure to keep the safety on in case the whole thing really was a prank, but still ready to switch them to live, the soldiers gripped their guns and moved forward, leaving their comrades to watch the prisoners. As they neared the opened door, they kept their eyes peeled for any danger.

They saw none, because the danger wasn't in front of them.

After gently pushing on the door to make it lazily swing open, Craft had dropped out through one of the windows out of sight of the soldiers vision and snuck around them, hiding behind the series of sheds and storage buildings arranged in a line to the left-hand side of the main hall. In one hand was a pilfered short sword, held with a deadly intent.

_That's it_, he thought as he watched the soldiers split away from each other, _give each other a little space_.

As the two advancing soldiers drew further away from their comrades, Craft followed the line of sheds to bring him directly behind the remaining three. He peeked out from behind the last shed in the row, making sure that all three soldiers were facing away from him. He could only hope that the hostages were either facing directly at the ground or had at least enough sense not to rat him out.

With one last breath, Craft, keeping himself low, stole out from behind the shed and towards the soldier guarding the rear end of the hostages. Soon, he was directly behind the soldier, who was so focused at dividing his attention between the hostages and opened door that he never sensed the figure right behind him, before Craft clamped a hand over his mouth and stabbed the short sword down through his collarbone and into his body. The soldier gave a muffled cry, completely unheard by his fellow soldiers, before Craft pulled out the sword and dragged the blade in one quick motion across his throat.

As he lowered the freshly-made corpse to the ground, Craft glanced at the hostages. Thankfully, they were all looking at the door, the same as the other four guards, and so either group noticed what he had just done and he had evidently been so quiet he hadn't even drawn their attention a slight.

A pleasant surprise to say the least and certainly a much better one than the remaining soldiers were about to receive.

Craft crept closer to the back end of the hostage group and manoeuvred around them to the left towards the second soldier that was closest. Upon getting directly behind him, Craft covered his mouth with one hand and stabbed the sword through his back.

Due to taking place directly next to the crouching servants, this action went not as unnoticed as the first killing and the servants noticed. Their eyes and mouths opened in shock but before they could let out any kind of noise, Craft raised a finger to his lips, indicating to them with both this action and a stern gaze to remain silent.

The order was obeyed and the servants clamped their mouths shut.

Except Manson, who was stunned and mortified to see his master take the life of an imperial soldier, and continued to stare at Craft as he let the body fall back. His growing shock grew when he glanced behind him to see the corpse of the other soldier with a puddle of blood leaking out behind him.

Something nudged him and he turned his head to see Lieana, looking at him with an expression completely different from the other servants.

Instead of shock, surprise or even fear, she fixed him with a calm mediated look and slowly shook her head, almost as though she knew exactly what he was considering to do. Something about her expression made Manson follow the others' example and keep him eyes down and mouth shut.

With the knowledge the servants weren't going to rat him out, Craft snuck around them towards the leader soldier standing in front of the servants with his back to them. This time, Craft didn't bother grapping onto the soldier to kill him; without breaking his stride, he simply swung his sword and sliced into the back of his neck, spraying out blood and completely severing his final cord. The lead soldier wordlessly and limply feel forward to land on the ground, but not before he pulled his own sword out of his belt as he continued to march forward, no longer bothering with being stealthy for the last two soldiers, who were still looking cautiously through the door, completely unaware of the danger approaching them.

"See anything?" one of the soldiers asked to his comrade, peering into the hall and completely missing the additional forms of Hammay, Maidez and Nennox amongst the bodies of the servants due to the darkness.

"Nothing. Hey sir, I don't think there's anything in there…"

The soldier turned around mid-sentence and before he could react, Craft covered the distance between them in an instance and drove one of his two swords through his neck. The other soldier turned to look in shock before Craft reversed his grip on his second sword and stabbed it straight through his heart. In one motion, Craft pulled both swords out the bodies of the two men to let them fall away.

With all of his targets now dead, Craft breathed out in relief. He tossed away one of the swords and sheathed the other in its additionally pilfered scabbard. He turned back to look at the stunned servants, who observed him with absolute shock.

Craft rolled his eyes and sauntered back over to them as though he hadn't just taken the lives of five men.

"You can all get up now."

Almost like a herd of scared sheep, the servants slowly got back to their feet.

"M-Master Craft? If that you?" Manson murmured, the questions growing in volume with each syllable.

Craft raised an eyebrow and spread his arms out as he approached.

"Evidently, yes."

"Wha…you…you just _killed_ those men."

"Once again, yes."

"But…they're _Imperial Soldiers_!" exclaimed Manson, full horror now creeping into his voice. "Why did you kill them?"

"Because they are here to kill us; you all and me."

Craft had decided to omit beforehand the detail that they had already appeared to have successfully killed him. Might cause them to drop dead from shock.

"Why though?" whimpered another servant, "We haven't done anything wrong…have we?"

"I don't think…Master Craft? _Have_ we done anything wrong? You were here long before we were."

Craft cocked his head to the side as he pondered the question, and how he should best reply to it, before feigning a sigh that was more thoughtful of the servant's confusion than the actual thought behind it.

"At this moment, I know as much as you lot do about this whole thing, although whatever's happening seems to have been initiated by the Empire. What made them do this I honestly don't know but before I reflect on this any further, there's something else I need to find out myself first."

His eyes swept the group of scarred servants before his eyes settled on a familiar face and some more memories surfaced.

"You there. You were my children's nursemaid, were you not?"

The young but wary looking woman nodded.

"And you were 'privy' to the location I would inform them to go in case of any danger, correct?"

_Due to my wife's charity so that you could remain safe as well_, he internally kept to himself as the nursemaid nodded.

"Then I would like you to come with me to show me this location."

Craft made to turn away, before realizing the nursemaid hadn't moved.

"Now would be nice."

The nursemaid shook her head as if to rid herself of a daze and apparently snapped back to reality, scampering over to join Craft.

"Y-yes, of course Master Craft."

"The rest of you, stay here until I return."

Without bothering to wait for a response, Craft turned and walked back into the hall, followed closely by the nursemaid. At least until they passed through the open doors, that was.

Her eyesight adjusting to the darkness of the hall as she stepped inside, the sight of the chaos and devastation within slammed into the nursemaid and she covered her mouth in shock and horror, her stomach churching at the scene of death before her. Craft paid her distress little notice and continued through the hall, making sure to avoid stepping on any of the bodies, and only pausing to make sure the nursemaid was following him. To his pleasant surprise, she did, although at a pace more skittish then he would have liked. Still, he kept his annoyance to himself as he reached the other end of the hall. The nursemaid joined him, her hand still covering her mouth and her eyes watery with horror.

"Can you continue on?" Craft inquired, and the nursemaid swallowed back a wave of nausea and did her best to nod steadily, "Good," he stood to one side and swept his arm in front of him, "After you then, my dear."

After fully regaining her composure, the nursemaid led Craft to a door on the side of the hall they had just walked through.

"It was down through here sir," she explained as she walked through, Craft following her, "but if it's okay, may I ask a question?"

Craft shrugged, "Don't see why you wouldn't. Go ahead Miss…"

"Winfri."

"Miss Winfri," Craft finished.

Winfri took a deep breath, knowing that she was about to question the man who paid her income.

"I just find it a bit strange that you need me to show you to your family's safe room. I would have presumed that you'd know where it is yourself."

As she inquired, Winfri began to play with the hem of her dress, just now becoming aware of the stereotype of how rich employers would like to fraternize with the staff. It seemed silly to be worrying about such a thing now, considering that he had just saved them from an apparently unjust execution, but classical fears were not easily forgotten.

To her relief, Craft's answer, which came after a short pause, remained crisp and business-like.

"The truth is I actually kept the location of the safe room a secret from even myself, allowing my wife to oversee its construction. It was my fear that if any hostile forces got a hold of me, and subjected me to unfavourable conditions, that I would end up selling my family out for myself. I'm under no delusions that I am wholly selflessness, but I would still do what it took to make sure my family remained safe."

A genuinely admiring smile broke out across Winfri's face.

"Well Sir, for what it's worth I think that's a plenty selfless viewpoint."

Craft gave a thankful smile back, but when Winfri turned back around, it vanished like ice in summer.

The truth was he needed Winfri to show him the location of the safe room because he couldn't remember where he had ordered it be built, thanks to the blanks in his memory he had awakened with. If he had told her that he was an amnesiac, she may have grown suspicious that he may not have actually been who he is. All the servants might of, and then he'd have had to use more forceful means to collecting the information he wanted. He may lie to his servants, but he wasn't willing to hurt them.

Not at first, anyway.

The lie seemed to have calmed the nursemaid's worries, at least, so Craft relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he followed her down the hallway, his wandering eyes lingering on a patch of mist before facing forwards again.

His eyes widened and he whipped his head back around to the patch of mist.

_That shouldn't be there_, he thought. Whilst the corridor wasn't exactly humid it shouldn't have been cold enough to produce mist. Yet there it was, hanging in the hair. Upon closer inspection, Craft saw that the mist had some sort of shape; running his eyes over it he saw that it had a human-like outline. And it wasn't alone. There were two smaller humanoid figures next to it, connected to the larger shape of mist by what could only be described as its hands.

By the way they were slanted the threesome appeared to be running from something.

Craft turned his head to see that Winfri was still been walking forward and thus away from him within the few seconds he has been observing the outlines. Was she unable to see the apparitions? He turned back to observe them and took a tentative step forward, and then almost let out an exclamation of surprise when they _moved_.

No sound came from their footsteps as they appeared to be running as fast as they could without losing contract with each other. As Craft watched, they continued to run straight towards where the corridor came to a Y split, where Winfri had come to a stop to unknowingly allow the apparitions to pass straight through her and turn down one of the corridors, quickly vanishing from Craft's sight as he watched, almost entranced.

"Let's see…oh, Master Craft, why'd you stop?"

Craft shook his head as Winfri realized he was still standing a few feet behind her.

"Oh, sorry, just had a…strange feeling."

"Well," Winfri turned back to face the branching corridors, "If my memory's correct, then we need to go…"

"Left," stated Craft.

"Yes," Winfri frowned as Craft walked up to her, "But I thought you didn't know the way?"

Craft didn't meet her gaze, instead focusing on the fleeing apparitions that had come back into his line of sight.

"Just a gut feeling."

Craft was now guided by the apparitions and Winfri in the same direction, coming to a door at the end of the hall.

"Nearly there Master…" Winfri's sentence trailed off as her nose wrinkled, "Ugh, what's that smell? It smells like…"

"Smoke. Smoke and ash."

"Why would there be…"

Winfri once again stopped her talking as Craft walked past her towards the door, through which the ghostly figures had passed through, pushing it open.

They were both greeted by a scene of scorched blackness covering an area that had once been a garden, the grass replaced by burnt soil and the skeleton-like remains of a greenhouse and plant cages littering the area. The burnt beginnings of branches in the ground surrounding all this conveyed that there had once been a hedge enclosing the scorched garden.

Winfri followed Craft out into the garden, looking around in shock.

"Oh god…this was the mistresses' favourite place to go."

Craft ignored her and continued to follow the apparitions.

Suddenly, their running came to a stop before the biggest one bent over and then straightened back up. As Craft watched, all three figures seemed to vanish into the ground. Meaning only one thing…

As Winfri continued to look around the ruined garden, having completely forgotten Craft's claim that he had no idea where his family's safe room was, Craft bent over and brushed away the old ash caked over the metal trapdoor. Tapping into his phasing abilities, he partially phasing his fingers through the metal surface and traced it about until he felt his partially-intangible fingers touch the sliding lock. Focusing on making the fingers phased through the gate tangible enough, Craft slid the lock to the side, unlocking the trapdoor. Pulling his hand back and returning it to normal, Craft gripped the edge of the trapdoor and pulled it open.

The bang that followed as it fell onto the hardened earth startled Winfri, who whipped around to see what Craft had achieved.

"Oh, you must have a key on you. Are they in there?"

"Yes."

Relief flooded over Winfri's face.

"They are? Oh thank god!" she dashed over to the open trapdoor, but Craft's outstretched arm blocked her path.

"I wouldn't look if I were you."

"What, why not?" forgetting her allegiance to Craft, she pushed aside his arm and stepped forward, "If they're down there, we should-"

For a third time, her voice failed, but this time it was replaced by a horrified gasp. She clutched her hands over her mouth and turned away in horror.

Craft simply stared down at the remains of what had been his family, which he could only figure out by the raggedy rabbit doll the smallest one held.

The apparitions had been a clue as well, but on account of having no idea how he was seeing them, he had possessed some scepticism about their usage.

Still, they had lead him the rest of the way here to see this, as had Winfri, who's fit of gagging had expanded to include her collapsing onto her knees. Craft kept his eyes on the bodies of his family but continued to listen to their nursemaid's coughing.

Eventually, after a couple of deep breaths, Winfri brought herself under control, but could not bring herself to turn around and behold what was in the safe room.

"Oh god…Master Craft, I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be," said Craft, "Please wait here a moment, there's something I need to do."

Craft descended down the safe room's steps to stand over his departed family. There was a sleeping area built into the wall next to them and on it was a blanket. Craft took the blanket and draped it over the bodies, before standing back up, giving his family one last look.

He stood there, waiting for the wave of sadness to finally come over him.

Yet, aside from a twinge of disappointment at something in his life (?) no longer existing, he felt nothing.

He felt no guilt for killing, felt no genuine sympathy for his own servants and now he wasn't feeling the appropriate overwhelming sadness for the loss of his family.

Just what kind of man had he been?

* * *

As soon as Craft and Winfri returned to them, the servants all sat up from their positions crouching on the ground.

"Master Craft, you've returned," stated on the servants, "Did you find your family?"

"We did," muttered Winfri, the tone of her voice telling the servants what they had already suspected when they saw the two had returned alone. In spite of ever being as close to the mistress and her children as Winfri had, a wave of sadness fell over the group. One of them made to walk over to Craft and offer his condolences but upon seeing his Master carrying himself with the same level-headedness as he had done before, he drew back from the idea.

After a moment of silence, Winfri turned to Craft.

"What should we do now sir?"

Craft closed his eyes, crossed his arms and breathed out as he contemplated.

"Well, I don't know about myself at the minute, but in all your cases I think the best thing you can do is get out of here as fast as you can. I have a sinking suspicion that these fellows," he nodded at the corpses of the Imperial Soldiers that had been lined up by the servants as an act of undeserved respect in death, "aren't the only ones that have been dispatched here. Judging from their orders, I think any comrades of theirs will be inclined to try and succeed where they failed."

"So we simply leave this place?" a servant dared to ask and Craft awarded him with a serious look.

"You may need to go further than that. There'll be records of you all working here and if they aren't updated to include a date of death, they will be used to track you down," he continued on even as the servants became increasingly upset and agitated, "So when you leave you'll need to be discrete, maybe relocate yourself to another town someplace else. If you have family, you feel free to take them with you. Oh, and maybe change your names and appearances." He added casually.

"But…but our entire lives are here!"

"And back at our villages! We're just meant to leave them behind?"

"If you want to keep your actual lives, you may need to leave the material ones, yes," Craft flatly replied. He watched as his statement resonated uncomfortably with his servants as they realized he was right.

Except for one, and Craft noticed.

"You have a different way out of this?" he asked, and Manson somehow knew that he had been called out. The chef swallowed and shrank back a little, wringing his hands together.

"It's just…"

"Just what?" inquired Craft as he took several steps closer, talking like a manager in a business room to someone making a complaint.

"It's just…the Empire wishes to execute us, right? But why though? I'm sure we've all done nothing wrong and anyway a single violation from one of us wouldn't be worth killing us all."

Manson looked around at the other servants for conformation, which they gave with hesitant but earnest nodes. Their validations gave Manson more courage to continue.

"So if none of _us_ did something, then maybe it was someone else."

Manson's gaze settled on Craft, and the latter saw that in spite of his nervousness there was still an accessory element within him.

"Someone who's position meant that anyone under him would be killed because of what he did."

Craft continued to remain silent as he advanced towards Manson.

"And if the Empire wanted him gone, then maybe they'd be willing to compensate the ones who brought him…" Manson felt Craft's hand on his shoulder and his argument froze as Craft's eyes, even cool and calm, settled into his.

"And what would that person do when they turned the other in? Do they think the Empire will give a rat's ass about rewards for a simple chef? If they were giving out rewards for compliances, then it would be a death quicker than most," Craft leaned close to Manson's terror-stricken face, "And even if that person remained loyal to his soon to be murderers, do you think they would act any differently from the screaming sheep they were when they first realized they were going to die?"

Manson said nothing, only aware of the grip of his master on his shoulder and his impassiveness at his distress.

Until the spell was broken when the new girl Liena stepped forward and took his other shoulder with a much gentler touch.

"He has a point Manson," she said, "If there was going to be a reward for him then there would be public wanted posters giving out a bounty. But there are none. Even if he has done something that has endangered us all," Craft didn't miss the accessory glance, much firmer than Manson's, she threw his way, but he ignored it, "the Empire has already written us off. There would be no benefit to us in turning him in. And besides, would you want to risk trying?"

Manson looked at her and then the other servants, feeling their opinions swing behind Liena's, before turning to look at Craft, realizing that Liena right; if he fully intended to turn in his master, then he would never leave this place. So with his hopes at returning to his normal life dashed, Manson stared at the ground, silenced, and drew back from Craft, who released his shoulder as he took notice of his returned subservience.

With the situation diffused, Craft adjusted his sleeves.

"Right then," he gave a flattering smile to the rest of his unnerved servants, "Who wants to go home for the last time?"

* * *

At the northern section of the estate, a square of the wall swung outwards, revealing itself as a secret door. Coming through first was Craft, who checked the area for any Imperial Soldiers. Fortunately, there were none in sight. Evidently, they had only been concerned with getting the servants inside from the front to execute them there. They hadn't been counting on them getting out this way.

And why should they? This secret entrance had designed specifically here because no-one was expected to try and get out here, considering there was nothing but a 20 foot wall to be seen. That was one of the little bits of information Craft had been able to recall.

"Alright you lot," Craft stepped out from the secret door, "remember what I told you. Keep off the main roads, keep your faces discreetly hidden and steer clear of any Imperial outposts," he instructed as the newly cloaked servants filed out "From here, loop around into the countryside so you can steer clear of any Imperial units that might still be surrounding the estate. Taking that into consideration and the usual time it takes for a horse to get here, then your journey should take 3 to 4 days, so I'd recommend pacing yourselves. Got it?"

The servants nodded and murmured.

"Well then, good luck to you all."

Understanding that Craft no longer felt he held any obligation towards them, the servants all set off, not looking back to their former place of work.

All except for one.

Winfri lingered behind as her fellow workers departed before turning to her former master, the jingling of a couple coins in her pocket evident.

"I…just want to say thanks; for saving us, and giving us a fund for our journey."

Craft shrugged and gave a smile.

"I don't think I'll have any more use for it."

In truth, he had only felt the need to give the money out as a subconscious means of instilling a bribe within the servants.

Less likely to turn in someone they're feeling generous towards, Craft internally mulled, before Winfri surprised him by suddenly hugging him around the chest.

Craft blinked in surprise, before stiffly patting Winfri on the back.

Soon he was watching her vanish into the distance, giving one last vigil over her before turning back through the secret passage.

"No more time spent on other people," he mused to himself as he pushed the door closed and headed back into the estate, "I need to focus a little more on myself."

* * *

As soon as she was sure that Craft was no longer watching her and that none of the servants were in range, Liena stopped underneath a tree and brought her hand up. In-between each finger were the kind of tools that would be found in a cosmetics box. She swept them over her face and Liena was suddenly replaced by a woman of equal age with long auburn hair and a headphone like accessory over her ears.

Chelsea popped a lollypop into her mouth before finally relaxing. She had been tensed up the entire time when the Imperial Soldiers were about to execute the servants, ready to act at a moment's notice, even when Craft had mysteriously saved them.

Imperial soldier executions she had dealt with at least once, but a high value member of the Empire interrupting them was something new.

Anyways, it had proved that the intel she had gotten from the Boss had been right on the money. The Empire appeared to have turned on Craft and this made for some rather juicy opportunities, considering what Craft had been doing. The next step was to inform the Boss.

Clasping her hands behind her back, Chelsea turned on her heel and began her journey back towards the nearest secret Revolutionary outpost.


	3. Novaregna

Peace and quiet.

With the servants and Imperial soldiers having both been taken care of, albeit in different ways, the entire silenced estate was now Craft's.

First thing he did; go into the kitchen and look for something to wet his appetite. Although he wasn't feeling particularly hungry, he was just felt a simple need to take a moment to himself, before he began to try and obtain some more knowledge.

Fortunately, the kitchen wasn't as wrecked as the rest of the manor was but it was still rather scarce of anything edible, primarily due to the fact that the foods such as cheese and meats had gone mouldy. Evidently, a lot of time had passed since…whatever had happened to him before he had awoken.

_What was it that soldier had said_? Craft mused to himself as he rummaged through the cupboards, _I had been killed_?

At the time, Craft had been too focused on executing the soldier who had told him this to properly think about what he had said.

His focus suddenly slipped again when he felt his fingers brush against something that felt to be made of glass. Reaching back in the according direction, Craft was able to wrap around his fingers around the neck of a bottle. Drawing it out, he observed the label, recognizing it as a famous brand, well over 100 years old.

"Heh…jackpot."

Leaning against the counter, Craft pulled the cork off the bottle, taking a moment to let the sweet smell of the wine enter his nostrils. He didn't bother looking for a glass, putting the bottle's opening to his lips and taking a swig, only for the liquid to force its way out of his pursed lips and slash down his chin.

Craft's eyes widened in surprise and he pulled the bottle away, causing some of the vintage drink to splash onto the ground. Wiping his mouth, Craft looked first at the spilled wine and then the bottle, confusion muddling his face.

He could have _sworn_ he had properly swallowed, so why didn't the liquid leave his mouth downwards, rather than out outwards?

Placing the bottle of wine onto the counter, Craft pulled out a drawer and pulled out a large headed spoon, holding it up to use the reflective surface to look around for any kind of abnormality in his mouth.

He found one alright; where there was meant to be a passage at the back of his mouth, one that led to his stomach, there was nothing, not even a uvula, just a smooth wall of what looked like flesh.

He didn't have a throat.

_That_ was very strange, he thought as he placed the spoon down. Whilst it was true that his abilities to phase his hands through solid objects, see visions of the past and read a person's mind with touch where definitely out of the ordinary, they had at least all been a use to him in some way or another. But lacking a throat? That didn't make sense. People _needed_ throats, for eating and breathing. How could he still be taking in breaths if he didn't…?

Something else suddenly occurred to him and it led him to taking in an experimental breath of air. Whilst his nose still moved in time with the inhale and he felt no tightness in his lungs that would belay a lack of oxygen, Craft didn't feel any actual air enter his lungs or his nose.

No oxygen in his body, yet it appeared to be functioning as normal and as he had noted before, he wasn't feeling any pangs of hunger. He had written it off as nothing but now he was starting to think it was something more.

Just what the hell was going on with him?

He needed to find answers, that much was obvious to him, and more needed than ever now, and he had a suspicion he knew where he could find some.

Leaving the kitchen, and the expensive bottle of wine sitting forgotten on the counter, Craft headed through the main hall and back towards where he had first awakened; the study.

As he passed through the main hall, his eyes wandered to an empty spot where a body has formerly been lying. His body to be precise, the one that had been killed by two of the first three guards he had come across. After dealing with the trio, Craft had approached the bullet riddled body to look it over but the moment he had touched it, it had combusted, leaving nothing but a small pile of dust. He hadn't been able to dwell on it too long on account of the servants arriving and being taken hostage.

Just another puzzle piece that he hoped the study had answers for.

Upon arriving in the small room, Craft immediately headed towards the desk, walking around the floor's hole in the process. The desk had been evidently shoved into the corner so Craft seized one of its sides and pulled it back around, using a small burst of inhuman strength to do so. With the back of the desk, and thus all its drawers, now exposed to him, Craft knelt down and began pulling them open, searching for anything that may give him some sort of clue to what was happening, both the events in the estate and to him.

To his frustration, he found that they were all nearly empty, apart from some bottles of ink and a collection of pens, all except for the last one to be opened, which did offer something interesting; a folded piece of paper, looking as though it had been carefully stored away. Pulling it out, Craft opened it up and scanned it.

It appeared to be some sort of record. In fact, if he hadn't known any better, he would have mistaken it for a delivery contract, for it read;

_Product under the ownership of Doctor Victor Craft/Designate First Class Transportation/Payment of 80,000,000,000 Gold Pieces Received/Held in Imperial Arm Storehouse/Terms of Usage Signed_

"Imperial Arm?"

That rang a bell or two. And from the look of the other series of words on the paper, he must have paid for one of these items and a great deal for it too, considering the price and the first class transportation. Still, whatever an Imperial Arm actually was still eluded him mentally.

He had to find some more information. His eyes fell on the various papers scattered about on the floor before crouching down to begin picking them up.

"Maybe something here…?" As Craft set about picking up the papers, he spared a few moments to quickly look over them. To his dismay, none of them seemed to be related to the subject of an Imperial Arm. It was simply lists of resources, bills to pay, even idle scribbling.

Craft reached out for another paper when one of the ones he had collected, jammed under his arm to look at later, fluttered free and wafted down into the large hole. Craft looked after it in annoyance and rolled his eyes. It was more than likely nothing but with his lack of memory he couldn't afford to leave any stone unturned.

Placing the other collected papers down on the ground in a stack, Craft lowered himself down into the hole, using his phasing hands and feet and climb downwards, back into where he had first awakened.

Upon arriving at the bottom of the cavern, Craft scanned the area, looking for the piece of paper. He found it easily enough, lying flat on the smooth, slightly damp ground.

It was only after trudging over and picking it up that Craft realized the entire cavern should technically have been bathed in darkness, due to the lack of light within it and even from the hole to the office. In other words, he could see in the dark.

"Great…" he drawled, "Another weird thing about myself," he looked over the paper he had gone to retrieve and groaned, "And another piece of useless parchment."

This one was a series of budget calculations, but only that, no indication of what was being budgeted up. Crunching the paper up, Craft tossed it aside and looked up to quickly think through his route out the pit.

That was when his eyes picked out on something written into the underside of the floorboards above the pit, there placement belying the fact that they wouldn't be noticed unless someone was directly in the cavern. Craft's eyes widened as the realization he had finally stumbled onto a breadcrumb of sorts, quickly scanning the writing;

"Head to the peak of your palace," he read. His brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what it meant.

He didn't have to think long before he remembered the spire that pointed straight into the sky from the middle of his manor.

Soon he was standing out in front of the main hall, looking upwards at the spire whilst shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. It was just less than 40 meters tall and looked impossible to climb thanks to its smooth surface. Fortunately for Craft, he could climb a little differently than most people. Still, it looked like it would definitely be an uphill endeavour as it was a climbing distance much greater than what he had previously dealt with. One wrong move could mean he'd end up as a smear on the ground, and whilst he could evidently return from death via the pit, he didn't want to lose any potential progress. He would have to ignore the danger as he went, he decided, before walking towards the wall next to the main hall's door.

From there, he climbed up until he was on the roof of the hall that featured the base of the spire in the middle. After walking none-to-gingerly across the titled roof, unlike most people who found themselves walking on a roof, Craft came to the spire's base.

After taking a moment to tense himself up, Craft planted his ghostly hands on the surface of the spire and began to haul himself up. It was easier going than he had expected but still encountered a slight problem that came in the form of heartier winds that buffeted against his body, dragging strongly at his coat.

But he eventually reached the top of the spire, which was topped off with a long wooden pike which he grabbed a hold of to maintain his vantage as he crouched on the thin circle it was planted on.

From here, he could see the entirety of the countryside that surrounded the estate and even the mountains that enclosed them. The sun had begun to set, casting a long shadow over the entire scene lain before Craft.

But he didn't care for more than second about the beauty of the world before him. Instead he brought his hand to his chin, laid onto the needle's base and pondered;

"Okay…now what?"

He got his answer when the wooden surface he was sitting upon collapsed inward and he fell with a bellow through the hole as soon as it was made.

"_Are you alright?"_

Craft groaned and raised a hand to his head, rubbing his throbbing forehead.

"Yeah…I think so…"

He paused before gingerly opening his eyes, looking for the person who had inquired to his well-being with that pilot and formal voice as his eyes settled on the attic-like space that the spire's lower area hid, which he had completely missed as he had climbed upwards and had now fallen into.

Although his new location did not escape his knowledge, Craft ignored it in searching for the apparently non-existent speaker, as he sat back up.

"Who said that?"

"I did."

"Who are you though? More to the point, _where_ are you?"

"_Ah, I understand. Just one moment please…"_ 2 seconds passed before the voice came again, "_Look downwards from where you are now_."

"Look downwards…?"

Craft obeyed the voice and looked downwards to see his own chest and lap.

"Well, it's a fascinating sight but I fail to see the importance."

"_Open your coat up."_

Craft arched an eyebrow and looked around himself again.

"_Don't worry; this is for no perverted purpose, only one to show you something"_

"Good," stated Craft "…good."

A though crossed his mind as he began to unbutton the front of his coat.

_Hang on, how did this guy know-?_

"_What I was thinking? You'll see."_

Craft ignored the instinct to immediately demand answers and obeyed the voice, pulling open his coat.

The first thing he noticed was that he wasn't wearing a shirt beneath his coat.

That let him notice that there was a round black item embedded in his chest, right between the pectorals.

Craft's eyes widened in surprise as he reached with a hand to fell the item; it was smooth and stone-like and seemed firmly wedged in his flesh.

"_Please don't obscure it Master Craft_," the voice came again and Craft gave the stone two quick experimental tabs with a finger before pulling away his hand.

"Wait, Master Craft…?"

A beam of light suddenly shot out the stone, to which Craft let out a cry of surprise as in front of him the light projected a figure, one wearing what appeared to be armour that was seamlessly linked together all over his body, including the helmet which completely covered the figure's head and was decorated with the image of a large ring with five smaller rings surrounding it. The figure's entire body appeared to have the same visual appearance of the apparitions Craft had seen before; transparent and bright white.

Craft almost instantly realized that this was the owner of the voice.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who will attempt to answer as many questions as I can," the holographic suit of armour replied, his voice now clearer and less echoing, "Also, I would help you up if I could, but I lack any real physical presence, as you may have already guessed."

"…you'd be correct," said Craft as he climbed back to his feet. He looked the armour up and down, "But in all seriousness, can you at least tell me who you are?"

_Or what you are._

The armour clasped his hands together.

"Of course, but first I must tell you of something you have forgotten in order for what I will then tell you next to make sense. About the items known as Imperial Arms."

Those bells rang in Craft's mind.

"Okay then…go ahead."

The armour patted his chest that remind Craft the way a person would before a long speech, folded his arms behind his back and told him about the history of the Imperial Arms; created under the orders of the First Emperor by alchemists and scientists with rare materials harvested from the creatures known as Danger Beasts, there had existed over 48 legendary weapons, each one with a myriad of abilities. With such powerful weapons, only the most physically and mentally strong soldiers could wield them. Some were similar, some were completely unique, some were part of the same class and some were even stronger than others. But what they all shared was the guarantee that if any two wielders of them entered battle with the intent of killing the other, one of them would die. Or both.

However, half these legendary weapons had been lost following the civil war that had very nearly torn the Empire apart.

"…in a way, like the one that is currently happening now," the armour listed off.

Craft, who had leaned against the wall whilst listening with his arms crossed, nodded.

"Yeah, that I remember. A rebel group the Empire didn't feel the need to crush to soon. Guess they're paying the price for it now," he chuckled before getting back on topic, "So is what's going on with me related to these Imperial Arms?"

The Armour nodded.

"Yes. What is happening to you know, what _has_ happened, is due to the capabilities of one of these weapons. The one known as Novaregna."

"Novaregna?"

If the bells of memory had been simply vibrating before, they were now bellowing.

"What is it?" he gestured at the stone in his chest, "It is this thing?"

"Yes and no," replied the Armour, "It's a responder."

"Responder?"

"For the Novaregna. You see, it is not a conventional Imperial Arm, so to speak. It is not a weapon or an item or even one of the biological types. It is…"

"A network," Craft finished, "Of the mind."

Yes. Your mind. The ability of this Imperial Arm is to take an individual's mind and convert into a formless presence, for the most part at least."

"That's where _this_ comes in," Craft muttered, gestured at his chest. Only he didn't just mean the black stone.

"Yes," the Armour nodded, "The body you inhabit now is not that of your own, but the second stage of the use of the Novaregna; the formless mind is placed within an artificial body, which is essentially a biological Imperial Arm, gifted with all manner of abilities. Creating a powerful warrior with often a brilliant mind."

Craft raised an eyebrow at the Armour's attempt at flattery, but at the same time knew it was simply speaking an accurate description of the capabilities of the Imperial Arm.

Craft looked down at his hand.

The Novaregna…

"It's full title is Creator of Conquest."

Craft jumped slightly as the Armour appeared to read his thoughts once again; his sentence had come across as someone who was adding an extra snippet of info to someone else's statement.

In this case, it had been the one he had only mentally said.

It gave Craft an unusual sense of discomfort, but pushed it aside to continue his inquiry.

"So the abilities I have…the phasing and mind reading; that's part of this body's capabilities?"

"Yes."

"And coming back after being killed?"

"Yes."

"And the fact I can fight so well in spite of being, or was, a doctor of sorts?"

"Well, your new body certainly helps but you did actually serve a brief tour of duty in the Imperial Army before settling into your previous role."

Craft looked back at the Armour.

"Then what are you exactly?"

The Armour titled its head to the side.

"I guess you could consider me a guide of sorts, a programme built into the Novaregna to serve as an instructor on how to use it. Considering your…spotty memory, I'd say that my presence is invaluable."

Craft nodded. Its statement made enough sense, but it had also said something that hadn't sat right with him.

"You said 'spotty memory'. With the fact you anticipated my questions beforehand and told me I was in the army, I'm starting to think you can see inside my mind."

"That would be…somewhat accurate," as it spoke, the Armour began to pace around the enclosed space as Craft looked on wearily, "At the moment, I can read your thoughts, yes, but not all of them. I can only read the simplest ones, such as those born from instinct or what you are unable to stop thinking about when the situation calls, such as what you immediately think about before you truly think things through. Confusing, I know."

"No, no, I understand. Essentially, I need to think about my thoughts beforehand unless I want you to read them, not just instinctively have them."

"Exactly, but you can always give a mental command to let me see your own memories."

"Speaking of which," Craft stood back up from his leaning position, "someone told me I had been killed by someone, a general named Esdeath, but beyond that I can't recall anything else. Could you possibly find any memories inside my mind of what led me to become…this?"

The Armour titled its head upwards in a motion that Craft understood was in a pondering manner.

"Well, not exactly. You see, whilst there are certain memories that I _can_ observe, even ones that you aren't thinking off, that's only because they're still somewhat 'close to the surface', if you will, like you were observing something in a deep sea."

"You can easily see what's at the very top but at the bottom it's harder," finished Craft, "And I'm guessing the memories of my transformation are the ones at the very bottom?"

The Armour nodded, "Considering I cannot immediately find them, I'd say that hypothesis is correct."

Craft rubbed his temple in annoyance.

"Great…" he muttered, stifling his frustration before facing the Armour again, "Is there anyway to get these memories back to the surface?"

"Yes, I believe there might be a way."

Craft was pleasantly surprised at this.

"Good news to me. How do we go about it?"

"Well, the Novaregna is currently transmitting a signal from some location to the body you inhabit so that your mind can control it, via the Core in your chest. I believe that if we can strengthen that signal somehow, it will enable you to draw on other deeply buried memories."

"And how do we do that?"

"We need to create an additional transmitter, like the one your mind is being broadcasted from now."

"Creating another," Craft muttered, "Sounds like that could take a long time."

"Oh, not at all. The procedure in creating such a transmitter is actually quite simple, thanks to the abilities of your new body."

Another piece of good news.

"Okay then, how do we go about it?"

"Well, first off there's a major infestation we're going to need to take care of."

"Infection?"

The Armour stepped to the side and gestured with his arm to a shutter, prompting Craft to walk over and open it. The sunlight's glare distracted him for a moment but once his eyes adjusted he saw what the Armour was referring to.

Groups of Imperial Soldiers were dotted around the estate, with a group of four currently heading through the main gates.

"Ah." Muttered Craft.

"With them currently occupying the surrounding area, creating the transmitting point will prove difficult."

"Will it be difficult to remove them?"

"With the capabilities of your body, it certainly shouldn't be, provided you know what you're doing."

Craft let a smirk grace his lips, "Oh trust me, I _know_."

"Anyone know what the hell happened to this lot?" The soldier gestured with his sheathed sword towards the row of deceased soldiers.

"I'm sorry, but do you know me to be omniscience?" One of his fellow countrymen responded back snidely as he leaned down to inspect the bodies, his disposition turning serious, "Maybe the Servants ganged up on them and took them down."

"Then why didn't some of _them_ get killed? And for that matter, where are they?"

"If they're making a run for it, they can't be far-"

BHAM!

A figure dropped down on the ground behind them with a deafening boom, throwing up a cloud of dust. The soldiers whipped around in surprise to see the darkly dressed fallen man rise to his feet.

One of the soldier's eyes widened.

"No fucking way…"

Craft flashed the stupefied soldiers a grin.

"Hello boys," he thrusted his draw sword into the ground and leaned against it, "Will you be willing to leave peacefully?"

The soldiers continued to stare at him in shock and mutter amongst themselves.

"I thought he was dead! The general…"

"Maybe the General wasn't thorough enough."

Another soldier snorted, "That's impossible and you know it."

"Um, boys!" called Craft, drawing the attention of the soldiers back to him, "Back to my question, are you going to leave peacefully…or not."

The sword bearing soldier blinked before scowl crossed his face.

"No chance old man."

"Old?!"

"You heard me," he drew his sword as the other soldiers before him followed suit, preparing their weapons; one of them, armed with a knife featuring three blades lined up across a base as part of his own personal arsenal, stepped to the front of the group, "If you're still alive then we should correct this."

Craft rolled his eyes.

"Had a feeling it wasn't worth asking anyway," he shrugged with a carefree smile as the dagger bearing soldier advanced on him with murder in his eyes, "Aw well, better to ask than to be rude."

The dagger bearing soldier let out a yell and slashed down at Craft. Without releasing his hold on the sword's hilt, Craft leaned back to avoid the slash before instinctively lashing out with a knee to strike the soldier in the gut. The soldier crumpled forward in shock as a joint with the toughness of concrete slammed into his body, before getting his hair grabbed by Craft to slam him face-first into the blade's edge, cutting straight through into his brain. The soldier's body went ridged before Craft yanked the sword upwards, spraying out a burst of blood as the now half-faced soldier fell forward.

One soldier got over the shock before screaming out, "Damn freak!" and charging towards Craft, his sword drawn and raised. As it was swung down, Craft deflected the attack, leaving the soldier unable to react in time before Craft swung his sword down in the opposite direction as his deflect, slicing halfway through the soldier's neck, enough to end his life.

The third soldier swung his double-headed axe at Craft, who caught the weapon's swing by lodging his sword beneath one of the axe's heads. As soon as he had, Craft heard the click of a gun and saw the fourth soldier aiming his rifle at them. His increased reflexes kicking in, Craft grabbed the shirt of the axe-wielder soldier, all whilst keeping his axe trapped against his sword, and yanked him in front of himself as a human shield just as the rifle was fired. The shot shattered the soldier's right shoulder blade, sending him into fatal shock. Craft pulled out his own handgun, aimed and fired at the soldier as he attempted to reload, scoring a shot between the eyes.

Of course, the two shots ended up attracting attention and Craft heard the shouts of other Imperial Soldiers, "What's happening?"

"Let's go find out!"

Acting quick, Craft pushed away the fatally unconscious soldier and ran forward as quickly and as quietly as he could, pressing his back against the wall to the right of the gate, just as a line of Imperial Soldiers marched in, their eyes focusing on their dead comrades meaning they completed missed Craft in his hiding place.

As they went on essentially repeating the confused words of the other soldiers who had found their fellow troops dead, Craft moved away from the wall and skewered the soldier standing nearest with his back to him straight through the back of the neck. Not wasting time in being further stealthy, Craft aimed with his gun and fired off three shots to nail each of the three soldiers in front of him in the back of their heads.

Of course, this wasn't the end of the soldiers, as another instantly appeared through the gate, weapon draw and eyes widened in surprise just in time for Craft to whip around and shoot him. Another followed, this one a little quicker to react as Craft raised his gun to fire, throwing up his rifle in front of his face to protect himself.

This was the moment Craft's gun decided to run out of bullets.

The click incorrectly told the soldier he was safe however, as Craft was quick to adapt; bringing his sword up, he hurled it like a spear into the chest of the now attempting-to-aim soldier, sending him toppling backwards, the sword sticking up from his body.

As he heard more soldiers approaching, Craft wasn't this time waiting for them to come to him; he marched forward, yanking his sword out he soldier's chest and picking up his machine gun after stowing away his empty pistol.

Instantly, his empowered eyes picked out the Imperial Soldiers running towards him before they saw him. He raised the machinegun up, aimed and started methodically firing, each time piercing a single soldier through the head before their comrades had a chance to see where the shots where coming from until they were all lying dead.

Rustling from the trees next to him alerted Craft to the next danger and he swung his gun up to deflect the crossbow bolt that rocketed towards him, firing off the weapon as he did, hitting the shooter who let out a cry and fell from the trees. He was revealed to a camouflage-cloaked soldier with a now bleeding shoulder, who propped himself up against the tree he had fallen from, clutching his wound and possessing ragged breathing and spittle around his mouth as he glared at Craft.

"You…you're…"

"'Meant to be dead', yeah, I've heard that before."

He raised the machinegun and aimed at the crossbowman's head, intending to bring this to an end when suddenly;

"Hey you!"

Craft turned his head to see a large man with short cut brown hair in bulky looking armour decorated with insignias of the Empire, carrying a long spear and shield standing amongst the dead soldiers and glaring down Craft.

"Captain Roil!" cried the crossbowman whilst Craft, in spite of his intimidating enough appearance of the captain, simply blinked at the new foe as he entered a tirade.

"Whilst I may know who you are, Professor Craft, I don't care, nor do I care why you're here. But killing the soldiers under my command automatically entails you to a painful death! So if you have a shred of honour in your body, you will let that man go and face me in-!"

Craft pulled the trigger on his chest, riddling the crossbowman with holes and leaving Roil's mouth open mid-speech. Relishing the look of shock on the captain's face, Craft turned his fully face him.

"If you had a shred of honour in _your_ body you wouldn't be on the same side as this lot."

Roil snapped back to reality and snarled.

"Wretched cur!" he roared and he charged forward. Craft raised his machinegun and fired, only for Roil to raise his shield to block the barrage.

Just as the gun clicked empty, Roil had closed the distance faster than Craft had anticipated and the former slammed into the latter, sending him flying backwards. Craft let out an exclamation of pain as the now useless gun flew from his hands as he crashed back onto the ground.

_Damn, faster than he looks_. Craft had underestimated this guy. He opened his eyes just in time to see Roil stab his spear down at him. Craft rolled to the side to avoid being skewered but as soon as he got back to his feet Roil swung his spear in a wide arc, catching Craft in his side. Fire erupted in his ribs, at least if he still had ribs, and the strike propelled Craft into a tree.

"Get up," snarled Roil as Craft struggled to do just that. The captain sneered at him attempting to climb back to his feet and advanced towards him.

"Crap…" whispered Craft, barely able to crouch up as he struggled to block out the pain before Roil could get too close.

"_No, let him get close_," the disembodied voice of the Armour stated in his head, discreetly surprising Craft, "_and when he does, slam your palm against his shield_."

Craft automatically flexed his fingers and a smile, hiding from Roil by his facing downwards, appeared on his face. As Roil drew close enough for a single decisive stab, Craft pushed himself forward and pressed his hand against the Captain's shield.

"Oh please, is that meant to-?"

A massive explosive force erupted form Craft's palm, blasting the metal shield to smithereens and propelling Roil backwards. Craft stood there in shock, looking at the downed and groaning Imperial Captain, before looking at the palm of his hand and seeing what appeared to be another black stone in the middle of it, before the skin seemed to creep back around it, hiding it from view.

"_Another technique this body offers; a powerful close-ranged energy blast, perfect for shattering defences or stunning opponents."_

"I gathered," noted Craft, indicating the dazed Roil, "Now to reap the rewards."

He marched towards Roil, drawing his sword as he did. Roil looked up, and snarled as he brought his arm up, forgetting his shield was destroyed, before noticing the hand meant to be bearing it had shared its fate; there was nothing but a stub of bone surrounded by bleeding flesh. Roil took one look at the disfigurement before letting out a wail of horror. That horror was quickly replaced by anger and he whipped his head around to glare at Craft, earning himself Craft's sword straight through the middle of his forehead before it was in quick succession pulled out and used to slice his head from his neck.

At his victory, Craft almost felt as though his pain no longer existed, instead feeling a rush of euphoria.

"Was that the last of them?" he asked the Armour.

"_Nearly_," came the response. Craft smiled.

"Then let's get the rest."

It took Craft only ten minutes to either draw in or track down and slaughter the remaining 15 or so Imperial Soldiers, their corpses soon decorating the forest, blood pooling around the trunks of trees. Amongst them all stood Craft, who had just shoved a second sword through the back of the last living soldier as he had lain on his belly, watching calmly as his life had come to an end. He remembered his cry for their Captain Roil to come and save them and Craft hadn't had the heart, he supposed, to tell them of his demise. His slaughter concluded, he looked and saw a wagon with confused idle horses and a driver tangled in their reins, dead with a crossbow bolt in his back.

Looks as though he had distributed some justice along the way.

"_So tell me Craft, are you impressed with what the Novaregna has to offer?"_

"Oh absolutely," Craft responded in earnest, beginning to hike back towards his estate, "Reflexes, strength, resurrection after death and a little cannon in my hand…" his face suddenly soured, "Although the fact I was supposedly killed to get this way hasn't escaped my memory, or at least the parts I still have access to."

"_And as soon as you construct that broadcasting point, you will gain access to more. Where do you wish to construct it?"_

Craft pondered as he came back to the wall surrounding his estate and the gate into it. He looked at the stone arch over the metal gate and an idea of theatricality came to mind.

"What about on the arch over the gate?"

"_Yes, that would work."_

"_Good," Craft climbed up the wall and onto the arch, crouching down on the upwards curving structure of stone and cement. The structure was about 30 feet in height and so could just view over the tops of the forest's trees._

"Place your hand against the surface of the arch."

Craft did, making sure to position it to keep himself balanced.

"Okay, now what?"

He got his answer when his hand glowed white, spreading white veins over the arch that vanished in a heartbeat. Craft instantly felt as though a pressure on his mind has been lifted and with it came other memories, bright as daylight.

"I…can remember. It's all a bit of a rush but," Craft ran his hand through his hair, "I'm remembering." He became aware that the Armour's voice wasn't responding, "Hello, you there?"

"_Mister Craft, I would just like to offer up some advice, that what you will see may not be the best thing for you to witness. As in, for your current state of being."_

"Did you tell me you were a guide, not an instructor?" Craft stated firmly.

"…_Yes I did."_

"Then you shouldn't be giving me orders like an instructor, should you?"

"_No, I suppose not_," the uncertainty in the voice was gone, "_Very well then, make yourself comfortable_."

Craft was all too happy to follow that command. He crossed his legs beneath him as he sat upon the arch and as soon as he was confident he wasn't going to topple off soon, he closed his eyes and remembered the night of his death.


	4. Memory of the Hunters

The night he died started with him in his office.

It was now nice and tidy, the desk arranged near the back with no papers on the floor, all on the desk.

He was sitting at the desk, staring at the various documents in his hands, making sure everything in his estate and career was up to date. He reached out to pick up the cup of coffee he drank from, taking a lengthy sip before setting it back down.

It was peaceful, and quiet, until a knock came at the door.

"Come in," responded Craft. The door opened and in came Vesper, Craft's personal assistant for about 8 years. At 30 years old, with wiry blonde hair and green eyes hidden behind rounded glasses, he was a good lad, dutiful and hardworking enough, if not a bit overeager to help.

"Um, sir, there are some people outside who want to talk to you?"

"Really," Craft set down the papers and gave Vesper his full attention, "what about?"

"I don't know. All they said was that it was really urgent and they were in Imperial Uniform. Maybe it has something to do with…"

Craft raised a finger to his lips and Vesper immediately went silent, fiddling with his hands at his worry that he may have upset his boss. Craft lowered the finger.

"Vesper," Craft said in a patronizing tone, "the walls have ears."

"But Sir, everyone here is a trusted worker, you've seen to that yourself." Vesper said, his voice hushed to match Craft's.

"Then 'people talk' and all that," Craft waved off the inquiry for which saying most fitted with his caution, "Anyway, about those people who want to see me. Now, are you sure they had Imperial markings, you know how careful we need to be?"

"Yes, they showed me their badges and everything."

Craft signed in annoyance.

"Then I guess we shouldn't keep them waiting."

It was always ill advised to ignore the summons of an Imperial agent. Craft stood up and walked out the door, held open for him by Vesper, before the latter followed him down the corridor as they approached the main hall.

The instant he opened the corresponding door, Craft was instantly beset by the pleas of his youngest daughter.

"Dad! Dad!"

Craft's hand clamped down over his startled heart and he took a moment to breath in annoyance.

"Not now Reyna, okay?" he peered down sternly at his daughter, causing her to shrink back, wringing her rabbit doll in her hands.

"Victor!" came a chiding voice, and Craft sucked in air between his teeth as he realized he had drawn the ire of his wife, who marched over to him with a stare as stern as his, "We've talked about this. When Verona has something she'd like to show you, she gets to…"

"'Because I only ever take a second'," Reyna finished her mother's sentence for her, with her finger pointed up and hand on her hip in an imitation of a lecturer, her mother unable to help a smile pass on her face in spite of her grief with Craft. Even Vesper wasn't immune to the comicality of the situation, chuckled slightly into his palm but instantly forced himself to take on a neutral facial expression when Craft whipped around in annoyance and fixed him with a glare.

But he forced himself to breathe in to calm down before turning back to look on his daughter.

"Okay darling," he knelt down in front of her, put on a grin passable for genuine and spread his hands, "Show me what you've got."

Reyna's smile threatened to split her face in two and she held up her rabbit doll, "Look, I can make Winter here dance!"

She grasped both the rabbit's paws between the forefinger and thumb of both her hands and lowered and raised them accordingly, making the rabbit start jerking up and down, its velvet ears and legs flailing about.

Reyna did this for about half a minute before finishing by flipping the rabbit so that it somersaulted forwards, before its bunched and bended ears causing it to somersault backwards into its former position.

"Ta-da!" Reyna announced. Craft blinked as his wife and Vesper gave a small pattering of applause.

"Wow. That was…something."

"Something good?" Reyna looked up eagerly and Craft swore he could practically _see_ the innocence shining in her eyes that prevented her from seeing he was being selective with his words at her toy's performance. To this, he increased the size of his own smile and ruffled her hair.

"Yep, something _really_ good."

Reyna beamed happily.

"In fact, why not show it to your sister? I bet she'd love to see it."

Reyna's eyes widened, "Yeah, I haven't show her yet!" She turned and ran off across the hall in search of her sister as her mother slightly slapped Craft's shoulder.

"See, was that so hard?"

Craft only gave her a weary annoyed look before sighing and straightening back up, "Come on Vesper, we shouldn't dilly-dally any longer."

"I thought it was a good showing ma'am," Vesper whispered to his master's wife, who smiled kindly at him before he caught up to Craft, who was walking on ahead, who was thankful that the few servants still lounging about the main hall where too occupied with their drinks and conversations that entailed their breaks to take note of how he was roped into something against his will. He'd never live it down if anyone started talking about it behind his back.

Speaking of which…

He turned to face Vesper as he caught up to him, "Not one word about this."

Vesper raised his palms in a placating manner, "Whatever you say sir."

Craft groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, not at all assured by his assistant's words that this would remain buried, as they continued out of the hall, into the night air and towards the gate.

"So where are these Imperial officials anyway?"

"Well…they came into the courtyard to talk to me before I went to fetch you, yet they seem to have moved outside."

"…huh…" Craft stuck his head outside of the gates, looking about for the officials that Vesper had been talking about. When he saw none immediately, he stepped out fully out of the confines of the courtyard, hands on hips and his patient being tested, "Could have at least the manners to stay where you had left them."

"…heh…"

Craft turned to look at Vesper.

"What's so funny?"

"Well," Vesper began to explain as he stepped out from the gate to join Craft, "What you said about them not having manners made me think about how they were dressed. It wasn't in uniform, or maybe it was, I don't know, I'm not an expert. Anyway, they were both dressed completely differently. One of them wore something probably casual outdoorsy clothes, all blue coloured, and the other, a girl, had a sailor's uniform. Not the kind in the official Imperial Navy, but the kind _schoolgirls_ would wear. Really weird, but they had badges and everything."

Craft frowned, but only for a brief moment as he realized who Vesper was talking about.

"Sound's weird I guess but I swear it's the truth."

"Oh, no, I believe you fully, in fact I know exactly who those two are."

"Really?" Vesper looked up in confusion, as if surprised Craft knew people with such as odd dynamic as the ones he described.

"You know the General currently in our residence, the one assigned to safeguard me and this location."

Vesper appeared to turn a shade pinker and look wryly about, "How could I not?"

Craft shook his slightly head in a well-meaning manner, a slight smirk on his face, "Well, she's recently amassed-"

Small, silver, dart-like items suddenly shot out from the air and impaled Vesper, twice in his chest and once through his eye. Craft remained still as he watched the limp form of his longest assistance crash to the ground and lie still before his brain galvanized his body; he turned and dashed back towards the gate, praying that another one of the mystery darts, which he vaguely recalled as being somewhat familiar, didn't strike his turned back next.

Instead, something lunged out the darkness next to him as he attempted to run back to safe harbour, a humanoid form in a strange black masked, wearing a similarly black outfit exposing entire portions of its muscular frame. Claws of metal glinted on his fingertips as it reached out to rake them either across or through Craft but was unable to do so before Craft pulled out his gun, kept on him at all times for protection, and fired off a shot into its head as he continued to run. He became aware of rustling in the trees and dark shadows leaping back and forth, confirming his fears that the danger to him had not decreased in the slightest.

In an attempt to decrease it, the moment he ran back through the gate, he pulled on the wooden ring tied to a string connected to the pole bolted against the stone archway, which would set off an alarm, altering his greatest line of defence that he was in trouble.

Only for it to snap off in his hand, no alarm blearing out. Craft looked in shock at the wooden item.

This whole thing…it had been _planned_. It must have been. Maybe by _them_, attempting another effort to take his life. Whatever the cause, he now had to directly alert his protector and, he supposed, anyone else as well, considering they may also be in danger.

He tore across the courtyard, amazed and relieved that by the time he got to the doors of the main hall, he had neither been impaled by a sharp item nor beset upon by another mysterious attacker.

He shoved over the doors as he came within range, causing them to swing open and bang loudly on the walls, startling the servants, his wife and two daughters, Reyna looking to be halfway through showing her sister her doll's dance who she likely dragged into the hall to do so.

"Victor!" his wife exclaimed in surprise, never having seen her husband look so breathless, "What's-?"

"We're under attack," Craft responded, drawing shocked looks from the servants and his family, Reyna clutching both her doll and her mother's hand.

"From who?" one of the off-duty cooks asked as he got to his feet.

"I don't know," Craft stated, turning to close the doors as some modicum of protection, "But what I do know is that you all need to get out of her whilst I alert the general. Does anyone know where she is?"

"Yeah!" his eldest daughter exclaimed, "I was upstairs with her before Reyna brought me down."

"Right!" Craft regained his breath and took charge, "Servants, fetch your fellow workers from the kitchens and then head out the back of the manor, through the rear gate. I'm confident that whoever is attacking us they aren't there. I also believe that the General will become aware of the attack in due time and repel it. Now hurry!"

The small number of servants took his advice quickly and began to fill out the hall, either through the adjourning hallway or to the other working areas to fetch their fellow workers as Craft's wife wore a confused look on her face.

"Wait, there's a…" Craft walked over to her and hushed her, turning her to the side so that the servants, but more specifically their daughters, didn't overhear what he said next.

"The Safehouse is for you and our girls, not them."

She pulled back, aghast and shocked, "But Victor, we just can't…"

"Mora," Craft took her shoulders, "I know you don't like leaving people in danger, but right now I just want to make sure that you three will be safe. I don't care if that's selfish and besides there won't be enough room for all of the others."

Mora bit her lip and looked visibly conflicted, and Craft softened his face, "Please."

Mora took one last look at the fleeing servants, knowing that they would be running straight over the safest place to currently be, and sighed, before turning to her daughters, "C'mon girls, remember that secret room daddy showed you?" they both nodded, "Well, we're going to have to go there for a while."

Something sudden crossed Mora's mind, "Wait, Victor, you're going to be coming with us there as well, right?"

"I can't, there's something I need to do first," he cast a quick look behind him to the door that led to his study before he knelt in front of his daughters, "Now girls, listen to your mother, okay."

Reyna and Claudia, in spite of clearly being terrified and close to tears, nodded.

"Good, I'll see you soon," he cupped one of the other's cheeks gently, "I promise."

As he stood back up, his wife reached over and kissed him, before taking the hands of her daughters and running with them down the hallway to the garden and the safe room. Craft watched them for a moment, his face sliding back from a brave smile to his default and much easier expression of calmness.

"Right…" he marched back towards the door leading to the hallway connected to his office. He had turned the handle when the servants who had gone to get their fellow workers returned with the latters in tow. One of them spotted Craft.

"Oh, Master Craft, aren't you going to…what's that noise?"

A low whistling now became audible to Craft. His eyes widened as he recognized the sound and he tore open the door and flung himself into the corridor as the doors to the main hall where blown off their hinges in a massive explosion, propelling him down the corridor, causing him to land painfully on his arm and a ringing to erupt in his ears. He stumbled back to his feet, reaching out blindly and slamming the door shut behind him before running as fast as he could. He didn't look back, but he was certain that the servants had been killed, or they most certainly were by what he could hear through the ringing in his ears.

Something about justice and animal roars with gunfire and the tearing of flesh?

But his eyes were working just fine and out of the corner of them, through the slit-like windows of the corridor, he saw an orange flickering glow in the distance. The tell-tale signs of a fire. Looks like the attackers weren't satisfied with trying to kill him; they also wanted to burn this place down. He had to act fast.

Craft reached the door of his office, and for the third time in such a short period of time, shoved it open then slammed it shut. Taking only a moment to breathe in, he darted over to his desk and set about pushing it to the back of the room, knocking over the chair behind it in the process. With the floor now exposed, Craft kneeled down and found a hidden latch. He pulled on it, opening up the hidden trapdoor he had built, the wooden section slamming down onto the ground with a bang.

A bang that he heard, meaning the ringing in his ears had subsided, he noted.

He then also noticed that the sounds of roaring and shouting had subsided. The entire building was now eerily quiet, or at least it was until the door swung open.

"Running Craft? Really? I hope you at least did so out of ingenuity rather than cowardice."

Craft's tensed muscles relaxed and he turned to face the owner of the voice; a woman with long blue hair, wearing an Imperial uniform and possessing the gaze of a hawk, "I hope the same thing of your lateness General."

Esdeath, the Empire's Strongest, merely gave a thin smile as his turnabout insult as he got back to his feet to fully face her, "No need to worry yourself Victor, I am still intent on carrying out my duties."

Now confident in his survival, Craft took in a breath and placed his hands on his hips, returning to a more commanding figure.

"I take it from the lack of my aggressor's sounds that you've placated the situation."

"In a way, yes," Esdeath nodded, the smile on her face not leaving. Craft took notice of this, and a slight twinge of unease went through his body.

"And were you able to find out who is attack me?"

Esdeath's smile widened, and the next two words were said like they were the ones she was waiting to say her entire life;

"We are."

Craft blinked once. He raised a hand and pointed at Esdeath, keeping his smile on his face the entire time in spite of the drop of sweat than ran down his forehead.

"Heh…I knew you had a nasty sense of humour General, but that really takes the cake," Esdeath adjusted her cap, bringing it slightly lower over her eyes, giving her a far more sinister appearance, "You were assigned to protect me," Craft rattled on, his mind fraying in disbelief, "The Empire needs me. I'm too valuable. We both know it."

Esdeath looked him in the eyes again with a gaze of mock sympathy, "That's right. You are too valuable. Far too valuable. And _everyone_ knows it."

Something hit Craft in the chest. He remained motionless for a moment before looking down.

In spite of the fact the icicle sticking out of his chest was the size of his own forearm, it had moved faster than what he could have possibly kept track off. Blood leaked out of the entrance hole and then out of his mouth. Strangely enough, there was no pain, but he was sure that would come any second now.

"…oh." He had just figured out what Esdeath had meant by his value. He looked back at her and the two exchanged a smile which conveyed no friendliness between the two, before he collapsed backwards straight into the trapdoor. It wasn't a clear fall and he bashed against the edges of the hole before freefalling into the cavern it led into, landing straight into the wet stone ground, his gun sliding away from him.

Now the pain came and Craft could feel the broken bones and blood leaking out of his body as he lay on the caverns floor, thinking over and over again, _Please don't come down after me_.

Esdeath looked down through the trapdoor at Craft's broken form, her smile still on her face as Craft stared out, his injured state rendering him only to look up impassively.

"It had been entertaining locking horns with you Craft, but," her smile was gone now, replaced with a look of true contempt that Craft wished he could return, "I will find this far more so. Farewell."

She turned her back and summoned massive icicles in the air, all pointing down towards Craft for a split second before shooting down towards him. In their decent, they tore apart the entrance of the trapdoor, ripping through the wooden surface around it and even the rope ladder that Craft would have climbed down.

When the rain of shards was done, a ragged hole in the ground was left, and nearly every one of the icicles had impaled Craft in his chest and limbs. His eyes were glassing over, his breathing ragged and nearly every drop of his blood now outside of his body.

But at the same time, an open mouthed smile formed on his face, because he knew something Esdeath didn't. This cavern wasn't meant to be an escape route. It was the location needed to utilize the small black stone he had inserted into his chest.

From it spread white veins over his body and onto the cavern floor, invisible to all but him. This is why he felt comfortable enough to call back up the now departing general;

"You will be seeing me soon General Esdeath. In this life…or the next."

There was no reply, only the resumed sounds of footsteps walking away. At the fifth step, the darkness was closing around Craft's vision. The sixth, the light was only a pinprick. The seventh, darkness came completely. The eighth was never heard at all.

Craft kept his eyes shut for a moment longer, before slowly peeling them open. As enough time had passed for it to get dark, his eyes weren't stung by newly revealed light but such a minor concern was the least of what he was now thinking of.

"Master Craft?" inquired the Armour, which manifested its hologram self besides him, no doubt casting himself from the exposed stone on Craft's palm, "Is everything alright?"

Craft didn't know if he was alright, if he was being honest with himself. On one hand, he had found the answer to how he had come by his body and powers.

"You saw my memories too, right?"

"Yes Sir."

"Then the pit I first awakened in…?"

"Is where you established the Novaregna's network. As it was 'ground zero', it is from where you will gain a new body upon death."

"And where do those come from?"

The Armour titled its head to the side again and hummed, "Apologies, but I still lack sufficient data to restore those memory gaps as of now. Perhaps if we were to return to the pit..."

"Oh, no," Craft waved off the suggestion, "As long as I don't stay dead, I'm not really interested in prying into the specifics of the whole thing. Especially since…" his eyes narrowed and seemed to grow darker, "I want to spend all my time in recalling just who had a hand in my untimely demise."

Another title of the Armour's head, "I thought you had already determined that it was General Esdeath…"

Craft raised a silencing finger, "Oh contraire my friend. Whilst it may have been her to ravage and rip apart my body, there were others there who each contributed to my death, likely under her orders. And I believe I know exactly who they are."

"One moment please," Craft knew the Armour was briefly scouring through his memories, but did not mind as long as it brought it up to speed, "Ah, I see."

"That's right," Craft pinched the bridge of his nose, not out of annoyance, but rather as a small-scale outlet of anger, "The Jaegers. Esdeath's new personal entourage of Imperial Arms wielders to replace those toadying Three Beasts."

The memory of his death had given Craft several key clues to just who had been behind the attacks, going through the event bit by bit to determine that, yes, all the members of the elite group had been there. Now he mentally went over the list of those responsible for his downfall;

Wave-The one Vesper had described as being the one dressed in blue outdoors clothing. A former member of the Imperial Navy before being moved to the Jaegers because of his possession of the Imperial Arms Grand Chariot, a full body armour. Described as having perfect levels of strength and stamina. Eager to do his duty to his country, but that just made him blind.

Kurome-Along with Wave, Vesper had described her attire as a girl's sailor uniform, she was originally from the Dark Squad assassination squad. A girl with dark eyes and an even darker disposition, always chowing down on some sweet or another, even when they weren't actually sweets. Her Imperial Arms was just as sinister; a katana that could resurrect up to 8 corpses to fight alongside her. She was the sister of someone quite infamous, but who that was escaped him for now.

Run-The silver darts that had slain Vesper had come from his Imperial Arms, Mastema, a pair of artificial wings that enabled flight. A smart and cunning young man, he had apparently used his charms and intelligence to climb his way up the ranks of the Imperial army, even becoming what essentially amounted to the second-in-command of the Jaegers.

Doctor Stylish-Like Craft had been, he was a member of the scientific division of the Empire. And like Craft, as he now remembered, they had changed their last names in preference of their interests. But unlike Craft, Stylish had changed his in regards to the fact that anything he did had to be overly dramatic and 'stylish', or even outright perverted, as seen with the modified humans he had set on Craft during the night of his death. Needless to say, Craft didn't exactly view him as a fellow man of science, and even less so since he had an unfair leg up in his experimentations thanks to Perfector, the Imperial Arms gloves that enhanced his precision and finger speed.

Bols-Former member of the Incendiary Squad, whose kind and gentle nature simultaneously proves that you can't judge a book by its cover and just because someone is a genuine nice guy, they aren't capable of sowing complete destruction. Bols accomplished the latter of these with Rubicante, which spewed inextinguishable flames. Although the fires that had sprung up to the back of the estate could have come from any source, Craft would wager they had been Bols' handiwork.

…Esdeath-The Empire's Strongest, a high-ranking general, all around sadist, and the one responsible for killing him. Her Imperial Arm, the Demon's Extract, let her generate and control ice. She had called the Jaegers to his estate to bring upon his downfall and had succeeded.

But not entirely, because he was still here. Thanks to the Novaregna, and all the capabilities it encompassed. Abilities _he_ now had.

A smile crept upon his face and his left eye glowed ghostly white.

"So now you have the knowledge; what are you going to do now Master Craft?" the Armour inquired. Craft gave it a wry smile before standing up fully on the stone arch, his hands on his hips like an adventurer ready to explode a new world.

"I am going to get out there, with the Novaregna in hand, find the Jaegers, find Esdeath, and make them _scream _for the sweet release of death."


	5. Planning and Practice

Craft may not have had a large drive in presenting a dramatic motion, but even he got a bit annoyed when the Armour almost immediately jumped on his vow of vengeance with a question;

"And how are you going to achieve this?"

Craft kept his smile on his face, but his eyes rolled upwards before settling on the Armour.

"Well, let's think about that. What kind of alteration to my being has given me all manner of interesting abilities? Oh that's right," he took on a sarcastic tone, "my new body gifted to me by the Novaregna. It could likely come in handy. What do you think?"

His face morphed into a deadpanned glare at the Armour, but apparently it was immune to the concept of sarcasm, because it didn't respond. Craft rolled his eyes and took a step forward straight off the stone arch, landing on the ground on both feet without so much as needing to catch his breath. The Armour rematerialized next to him due to his new placement taking the stone projecting it with him. This time, it had something to say.

"Forgive me Master Craft. I understand the uses that could come with your new status, but my inquiry was more along the lines of what you're going to actually do, not how you're going to do it."

Craft felt his annoyance waver and he begrudgingly nodded, "Ah, I understand. Well, I admit that it will require a bit more thought on my part," he paused, looking at the forest around him, "Maybe a walk about will help me to think."

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and started to trek along the dirt path that split the trees, the Armour remaining materialized behind him in spite of remaining in a standing position. Craft noticed and suppressed a chuckle.

"Oh no Master Craft, I understand the incentive to laugh."

Craft's head snapped back around to stare at the Armour in confusion before remembering that it could see his thought process as well as his memories.

"If it draws that much ire, then may I suggest doing what I mentioned before and concentrating on which thoughts you wish to keep private?"

"…hmm…yes, I suppose I would like to know how to do that. Don't like all my private thoughts being exposed."

"I understand Master Craft. Permission to directly instruct you?"

Craft smirked, "Permission granted."

"Very well, and it's actually kind of simple actually. I may have over explained myself on this earlier actually, error on my part. It essentially boils to, before any thought, concentrating on thinking 'keep this to myself, not the Armour'," Craft winced a little when he realized only just now that the term he used when thinking about his guide may have been a little insulting, "Don't worry, it isn't."

"Next step please," Craft hurried it along from the off-topic.

"Well, upon thinking 'keep this to myself', you can then create your next thought process. The Novaregna essential takes notice of the first thought and applies it to the next one, and to finish you need to then think along the lines of 'allow the Armour to also view this thought', and I shall be able to."

"That's all, huh?" Craft raised an eyebrow, but attempted the Armour's guide anyhow; first, he thought about keeping the thought to himself, before thinking out the sentence, _Seems just as complicated as his first explanation_, before then thinking about letting the Armour back into his thoughts, "Where you able to read that thought?"

The Armour caught on quickly, "No, you were successful in your process."

In spite of the praise, Craft still felt as though he had underperformed.

"Yeah, and to be successful every time I wish to keep something private, I'll need to take _ten seconds_ of out my scheduler to do it. Not exactly impressive considering the normal rate at which thought is conceived."

"I'm sure it won't be much of an issue Master, you're certainly smart enough that you'll be able to streamline the process with enough practise. After all, you have an IQ of 160."

Craft's eyes widened and he stared at the Armour in shock, "160!?" He frowned, "Well, I did have that scientist's plaque, and it would explain my ego," he let himself smirk a little at his own joke, "But if I really did have that level of intelligence, I don't think I'd be this disoriented or unsure of what to do next, wouldn't you say?"

The Armour nodded, "That sounds true, but what you must remember is that your mind is still more than a little unordered, as your lack of memories has shown. Maybe it's affecting your overall brain power or maybe your mind is still adjusting from being implemented into the Novaregna. Either way, it shouldn't be much of a problem for long. After all, more memories can be soon be dredged back up and we both known that memories carry knowledge. In this case, yours, so in due time your full intelligence should return."

Craft nodded with a firm expression, "But in the meantime I will need a little help to organize my thoughts. Can I count on you for assistance?"

The Armour gave a small nod, "Even without my primary function, it would be an honour."

Craft smiled, "That is good to hear. So…" he clapped his hands together, "Killing the Jaegers…any ideas?"

"…You are immediately going to focus on that Master?"

"Oh course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I just thought you may have been curious in exactly _why_ they had you killed? I mean, their reasons, motivations, orders…don't you plan to find out about that?"

Craft clasped his own chin, hummed for a moment, before stating;

"No, not really."

The Armour titled its head, "Sir?"

"Knowing _why_ they did it isn't really important. What is important is that they _did_ do it. No amount of knowledge is going to change that and if they wanted me dead, there was nothing then or now I could do about it."

"So you believe that all your efforts should be put towards taking your revenge?"

Craft nodded, evidently happy that the Armour was beginning to get on his wavelength.

"Don't get me wrong, there wouldn't be anything too detrimental in understanding their motivations, but it would neither be entirely useful."

"If that is what you think Sir, then that is how we shall proceed."

Craft nodded, "Excellent. So like I said, any ideas?"

"Well, let's take stock of one of the major problems. In particular their leader, General Esdeath, and how you will need to face against _her_."

"Yeah, I know. She doesn't have the title of Empire's Strongest for nothing."

"I'm afraid it may be a bit more than that sir. Think about it; as the Empire's strongest warrior, there's no doubt she's held in high valve by them, and is pretty well-beloved amongst her own private army. This means that there may be a great number of opposition to actually get to her, on account of the Empire wishing to keep their greatest military asset."

"So whilst she definitely doesn't _need_ any kind of protection, she'll certainly receive it."

"Exactly, and that's not even counting the Jaegers as the formidable individuals they are."

"That brings me to another question; how powerful is this new body of mine exactly?"

The Amour hummed, "I'm afraid it's not possible for me to precisely give a measurement of your current capabilities. At the moment I'd say you are about just below the threshold for being stronger than any Imperial Captain."

Craft thought back to how that Imperial Captain, Roil, had rather easily tossed him about until he busted out that concussive palm blast and cringed. Practically every member of the Jaegers certainly left his sort in the dust, and according to the Armour he was also no exception.

"So can I get this body stronger?"

"I would think so but I cannot concretely confirm this at the moment. I may need a while to find out."

"You mean recalling the features of the Novaregna?"

"Indeed."

"Can you do so soon?"

"Soon as I can sir, shouldn't take long."

"…great," Craft conceded, "Back to the topic at hand then. If I intend to take down the Jaegers, I'll need to go about it smartly. In other words, no drawing too much attention to myself, at least not at first. Last thing I need is a fully concentrated force gunning straight for me when I'm so underprepared."

"But wouldn't attempting to assassinate the Jaegers result in a great deal of attention coming your way?"

Craft nodded, "It would be inevitable, so I need to take the opportunities I can to stay hidden, and _then_ take them out."

"I have a feeling you're building towards the presentation of an idea, and it is only a feeling because you seem to have grasped the process of keeping your thoughts private."

Craft smiled in surprise, "Oh yeah, I must have."

"Congratulations are in order, but your idea?"

"Oh right; I'm thinking divide and conquer. Draw out a Jaeger one member at a time and deal with them on my own terms."

"Your own terms? You mean, lure them here for singular confrontations on your, excuse my terminology, home turf?"

"Exactly," Craft confirmed, at the same moment his walk brought him to the end of the twin corridors of trees he had been strolling along. Now he saw vast stretches of meadows and fields, which he knew where all under the control of the Empire, "Like lambs to the slaughter. The question is how to start."

"May I make a suggestion then," the Armour put forward, Craft's cessation of movement allowing its projected image to appear normally standing, "Why not attempt to get your level of strength up to a degree where you are confident enough to engage at least the Jaeger's weakest member, or the protection he shall employ?"

Craft had a feeling he knew who the Armour was talking about but instead focused on what it was firstly implying, "So have you recalled how I can improve the power of this form?"

"Indeed. In simple terms, the more you fight, the stronger you will become."

Craft blinked before frowning, "Well, I thought that would have been obvious."

"I understand what you mean, but it is of particular importance to you; your synthesized and enhanced form has been designed so that the more it fights, the greater its capabilities will become. For example, the more you fight with your sword, the faster your reflexes shall become and the greater the amount of strength there is behind your blows. Whilst you are correct in thinking it's very simple considering that even normal people are capable of such progress, in your case you have an advantage as it happens at a far higher rate whenever you fight. Just another benefit of your new form."

Craft nodded, once again satisfied with the Armour's explanation, "Ah, I understand. So I need to fight more in order to increase my overall strength."

"Indeed."

"But to do that, I'll need to find more _idiots_ to fight."

Even without being privy to this particular thought of Craft's, the Armour knew what he meant by 'idiots'.

"You intend to find other Imperial soldiers to test yourself against."

It was the tiniest amount, but Craft still thought he detected a hint of unease in the voice of the Armour. All he did was slightly narrow his eyes before putting on an air of non-impediment.

"Exactly. If they lack either the moral knowledge or the moral capacity to know just what kind of side they're fighting for, then it's on their heads."

"If you say so Sir. How shall we go about it?"

Craft mulled for a moment, "I recall that there may be some outposts in the vicinity. Where exactly, I can't immediately recall."

"Maybe I can take a look for you sir. Thanks to my connection to the Novaregna, and thus its connection to the estate, I am able to view things quite a distance away from the building's peak."

"You mean where I first found you? Sure, go right ahead. From there, you'll have a perfect view of the surrounding lands."

The Armour nodded and was just in the process of bowing its head down, likely the tell-tale sign it was about redirect its awareness through another means when Craft seemed to think of something.

"By the way, you already know that I think of you as 'The Armour', correct, seeing as how you've seen the earliest of my thoughts?"

The Armour turned back to look at him, "That is correct, and I assure you, I do not mind."

"I believe you, but the thing is I don't feel comfortable calling, well, thinking of you rather, in such a derogative term. Especially as you're so willing to help me."

"Well, it is in my function to do so, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Which is why I feel like you should have an actual name."

There was silence between the two for a moment.

"A…name?"

"Well of course. It wouldn't feel right of me to continue calling you by an unofficial title. Anyways, a name would make it easier for us to work together."

The Armour appeared to consider this, "If you really think so, I won't object to it."

Craft smiled, "That's great, because I've been tinkering around with something. And don't worry, it's got nothing to do with the fact you appear to be a walking metal suit," if the Armour was amused, all it gave in response was a slight nod, "So I've been thinking; the title of the Novaregna is Creator of Conquest, correct? Since you're an essential part of it, maybe we'll call you something related to that, or keeping in with the theme of conquest."

As he spoke, Craft paced around the near motionless hologram, motioning with his hands at each sentence.

"So what do you have in mind?"

"Maybe we should name you after a famous warlord or something. Someone famous. Or infamous, depending on their reputation. I remember about hearing of one who fought to defend his homeland from the reaches of the Empire, but was falsely labelled as a monster and murderer. He was maimed in battle and executed via hanging."

The Armour titled his head another time.

"And what was his name?"

Craft stopped his pacing, his smile still on his face and turned on his heel to face him, "Inimicus. His name was Inimicus." Craft spread his hands out, "What do you think."

"Too many I's."

Craft blinked in surprise at the response, but chuckling, "Well, fair enough."

"But aside from that, I believe it would be acceptable."

"Inimicus it shall be then. And quite frankly I'm proud of myself for thinking of it."

Craft crossed his arms and turned his head up with his eyes closed, a smug look on his face as the newly christened Inimicus looked on.

"So, should I go about scanning the area?"

Craft opened his eyes again, "Oh yeah, forgot about that for a moment. Okay, go do your thing."

Inimicus nodded and suddenly vanished from in front of Craft, the latter understanding he was directing himself to the peak of his manor. Craft knew that he was still connected to his mind, so he wasn't exactly alone, but the moment the Armour he dropped the smile from his face.

He had been right. He had quickly mastered the ability to hide whatever thought he wanted from Inimicus, after a fair bit of practice, including the real reason behind the giving of the name. It hadn't been for any altruistic or friendly reason. No; it had been to strengthen the Armour's loyalty towards him. Giving him his own identity was sure to implant a sense of ease within it when around him.

Overall, make him easier to subtly control.

Craft felt that this aspect was lacking due the Armour's subtle misgivings and questionings about his intent, something that odd if it claimed to be a simple helpful extension of the Novaregna.

Still, even as he had come up with the plan, there was still a small part of him that believed he shouldn't be thinking of such a thing. No because there may not be a need, but because he simply _shouldn't_ do it. Yet the idea and commencing of it had come so easily to him.

It had made him feel both uneasy, yet also naturally content.

He snapped back to attention when Inimicus appeared back next to him.

"Well?"

"I have spotted an Imperial Outpost not too far from here. From what I can tell, there may be up about a dozen or so soldiers in there. To the south-west."

"Well done Inimicus," Craft set his sights in the direction he had been told, the prospect of adding to his strength seething inside of him and a small smirk grace his face, "Let's go get some practise."


	6. South West Outpost

"Damn it!"

The soldier lifted the open neck of his water bottle to his eye, confirming his fear that he had completely drained his flask of its water.

His friend chuckled at his dismay, "I told you, small sips," he took one such small sip from his still half-full flask, but it was still a tantalizing action towards his fellow soldier.

"Come on, give me a swig!"

"No way, you'd guzzle it!"

"Oh don't be an ass!"

"Why not, it's fun! Hey!" he stretched his arm into the air to keep his flask of the suddenly grasping fingers of his companion, "Hands off!" He shoved him back one handed, his jovial mood wavering, "Goodness sake dude, just wait until we get to the outpost. You can have a whole barrel to yourself to stick your head in."

That drew to both their minds an image reminiscent of a long-necked Danger Beast bird burying its head in the sand, and that restored their friendliness with each other, the thirsty soldier's mood in particular peaking as they were only a short distance away from the south-eastern outpost.

"But seriously though, how can you be so thirsty? It's the middle of the night for goodness sake! You really shouldn't be this dehydrated."

"It's this stupid summer heat. It makes even the nights sweltering."

"Sure it's not your layers of fat trapping the heat in?"

"Oh piss off!" His thirst and anger getting the better of him, he stumbled ahead of his comrade, desperate to get to the outpost.

Fortunately for him, as they had bickered, the outline of the outpost was slowly becoming clearer with every step. It was square shaped, with each of its four sides comprised of a thin but study wooden wall. Three watchtowers overlooked the inside of the camp which several tents serving in place of more conventional structures, including a weapons and supply storehouse, but of greater note to any observer was the command tent. The entire camp was filled with Imperial Soldiers, either chatting or performing maintenance on their weapons. Cackling oil lamps dotted at regular intervals of the camp's walls kept the darkness of the night away, as did the small campfire in the centre.

"Oh thank goodness!"

The soldier broke into a sprint towards the gate, much to the amusement of his companion.

"Hey, Private, wait! You need to…" The gateman grumbled in annoyance as he was ignored by the parched soldier.

"Sorry about him," the other soldier said, just as yells of surprise and disbelief from the water supply tent could be heard, predated by a single splash, "He hasn't had anything to drink in a while."

"But it's night…"

"I _told_ him that before we got here! Anyway, I can give the report."

"If that's okay with you," the gateman pulled out a clipboard and pencil, leaning against one side of the gate, "Go when ready."

"Well, nothing to report really. We did the usual rounds and routes, and we saw nothing out of the unordinary."

"You see any of the other patrols?" the gateman asked as he took notes on his board. The reporting soldier frowned.

"No, why; is something wrong?"

"Possibly…it's just I feel that there haven't been as many reports coming in as there usually should, and something like that would only happen if the patrols weren't coming back in at all."

"Doesn't seem to be the case," the soldier stated, nodding his head towards the fairly full camp, "Camp seems pretty full. Maybe you were just losing track?"

The soldier was speaking mainly to reassure himself that everything was still okay, but it also seemed do to the trick for the gateman, who considered the possibility, before nodding and sighing, "But that's even more depressing. You know, that I'm doing badly at my job?"

"Oh come off it, you're doing fine. Besides, we're in the middle of nowhere right now, Craft's place has already been completely combed through and Roil always enjoys nightly patrols. There's nothing wrong with feeling like you've slipped up a little, or even actually doing so."

The gateman felt his good spirits return, "Guess not," as well as some charity, "Guess that means we can forgo the rest of the report," he added with a knowing smirk, which the reporting soldier returned.

Another splash and some more shouts drew their attention, "As long as you stop your mate from sticking his head in any more barrels."

The soldier sighed, "Fair enough. Take it easy."

"Done," the gateman shrugged jokingly, before watching the soldier rush over to the water tent. Leaning against the wall and pulling his hat over his eyes, eager to try and get some sleep in the hot night air, he noted that the thirsty soldier sure had been eager to get to the camp.

He hadn't been the only one.

Hiding in the shadows of the treeline a fair distance away from the camp crouched Craft, watching the two soldiers enter the camp.

"I take it this is the place Inimicus?"

"_Yes_," Inimicus remained speaking within Craft's mind, so that the shine from his projected form would not give away their location, "_And with a great number of hostiles within_."

Craft frowned, knowing what he was implying; was the risk worth the reward? It was true that he had to improve his abilities and according to Inimicus it was via trail-through-combat and he likely wasn't even in any real danger of being 'completely' killed, since any deaths apparently just send him back to the cavern he had awakened in. The real danger was that if he was killed by the soldiers amassed within the camp, they would recognize him. If it was true that he was believed to be dead, they, or at least the superiors they report to, may end up putting two-and-two together and figuring out he could effectively cheat death. And if that happened…

Craft shook his head. He couldn't afford to let his mind wander to future possibilities; he needed to focus on the here and now.

"Are you sure there are no other Imperial units around? Any smaller groups or patrols?"

"_I'm afraid not. At the time I did notice the smaller patrols they were all heading towards this place and are likely residing within. If you wish to improve your abilities, then this is honestly the only place to do so."_

Craft grumbled to himself, but remained resigned, "So be it. In that case give me a minute to think this through." Resting his chin on his fist he looked over the camp. First thing he took note of, the watchtowers; dotted in a zigzagging formation across the camp, one in the front right corner, one in the very middle and one in the back left corner, about 50 meters apart, certainly manned by gunmen and that could put him at a disadvantage if he fought on the ground. He would need to take them out first, that was a no-brainer. His gun (the handgun, he hadn't fancied lugging a rifle around with him) was still empty of ammunition however, and anyway the shots would have given him away, so that meant he would have to get close to them.

Scanning the walls of the outpost, he noted that the shadows would couple well with his dark clothing until he got to the closest watchtower, the front-right one, at which point its location pressed right against the wall would allow him to climb up and take out the watchman. As long as the watchman didn't have the initiative to randomly look down that is, but then again not many people did.

After taking a moment of mental preparation, and making sure the watchman was looking in the opposite direction, Craft darted forward across the darkened shield, keeping slow the whole time but making sure he kept a fast pace in the process. In a matter of moments, he was pressing his back against the wall, taking in some non-mandatory breaths only due to impulse. Looking straight above himself he saw the watchman was none the wiser to his presence, something he would be sorely regretting by the time Craft got to him.

Speaking of which, Craft waited a few more seconds to make sure he wasn't suddenly going to change his looking direction, before turning to face the wall and planting his phasing hands against it. As quick and as quietly as a cat, he scaled the wooden wall and transitioned from it to the wooden woven logs that consisted of the lower parts of the watchtower. Soon, he was holding on just a few inches below the platform where the watchman stood, and he risked a glance upwards, confirming that said watchman wasn't looking down and at risk of spotting him.

This had been the part Craft has been dreading; when he would have to kill the watchman. Not out of any aversion to killing; if that had been the case the results of his previous skirmishes would have been far more different. No, he was more concerned about the other guards noticing the deaths of this first one. It was a very real issue, considering that they were all equally tall heights, and if one watchman just so happened to glance in one direction and see a dead body, he would be uncovered.

Craft mentally chuckled; there were so many things that could be his undoing in this situation it was almost unfair. But there was nothing _fair_ when it came to taking a life. And in the case of this one he would have to be careful. Right now, his focus was not merely on his primary target, but also on the closest other watchtower, the one in the centre, making sure the second watchman wasn't looking in their direction. Fortunately, his focus was elsewhere, and with his first watchman with his back to Craft, it was his time to act.

Keeping his grip on the tower's side with one hand, he moved the other to grip his sword hilt, which has been stowed through his belt and carefully draw it, making sure the metal did not scrape against the leather belt too much. In a single motion, Craft pulled himself up to stand upon the platform directly behind the watchman. He straightened up slightly and shot his hand out to wrap it around his mouth, muffling both his surprised gasp and gurgle of pain as Craft's sword slit his throat open.

Craft kept a hold on the watchman's mouth until he was sure the strength and life had left his body. Making sure not to let too much blood fall from the thin neck injury, Craft turned the body about and set it down against the banister. From an outside perspective, the watchman would merely be resting.

Craft remained crouching, hiding himself behind the body as best he could, watching for any sighs of alertness from the second watchtower. Fortunately, the soldier merely changed his view for one that was also away from Craft.

So far, so good, but he had no time to waste. He couldn't get to the next tower via the ground considering it was crawling with soldiers, so that left a much more risky approach.

"Inimicus, would my body be strong enough to let me…?" he allowed the Armour to share his thought.

"_It should be."_

"Well, then let's see."

As soon as he was sure the watchman was set in watching his current viewpoint, Craft climbed onto the banister, crouching on it like an animal. Steeling himself, Craft leaned forward slightly and then pushed off against the wooden rung, sending himself flying through the air as he leapt from the watchtower. He practically soared through the air over the heads of the unsuspecting soldiers below. For a brief moment he revelled how much control he had in his own course, the wind brushing against his face and through his air, before the looming shape of the centre watchtower came closer.

Instinctively, Craft grasped a hold of the wooden shafts and planted his feet against several others below, gritting his teeth in preparation for the shockwave his landing would no doubt send up the tower to alert the guard, and he prepared to climb up quickly to deal with him.

But to his surprise, his phasing climbing abilities appeared to nullify the force of his impact, so that not even a shudder reverberated through the structure. His presence remained undetected.

Craft mimicked a breath in relief, before hardening his face and climbing upwards, after taking a look down to make sure no soldier on the ground had looked up that is. He reached the top, and after another quick pause to make sure neither remaining watchmen, this time including the one from the lower corner of the camp, would turn in his direction anytime soon, Craft repeated his previous action and cut open the throat of the second watchman. Leaning his cold body against the banister in a semi-standing form, Craft turned his attention to the last watchtower. Just as he was preparing himself to jump, his eyes took note of something.

Stretched between the middle and back watchtowers were a wooden beam from which hung several lit lanterns. Judging by the heaviness of said metal lanterns, it could be strong enough to hold him, Craft thought-would certainly be easier than leaping.

Making sure the watchman was facing away, Craft climbed over the banister and lightly fell onto the beam. Fortunately, his assessment was correct and his weight was supported. Furthermore, as the lanterns where placed directly below the beam, Craft had no fear of his shadow being cast to the soldier's directly below him, who were half-heartedly chatting the night away. Quickly but carefully, Craft moved across the beam, one foot in front of the other and his arms hovering by his side as balance.

Again, he thought to how it must be his new body enabling this ability, improving his equilibrium. There was no way, he thought as he neared and then reached the final watchtower, that he would have been this nimble and quiet if he had been a normal human. Guess that was something else to be thankful for towards this form, he thought as he climbed up the tower. That and his enhanced ability to be sneaky.

He looked up to see the surprised face of the watchman staring right down at him.

Craft's mind immediately switched back from thought to action and before the watchman could yell out his opened mouth, Craft drew his sword and lunged upwards, the tip of the blade piercing straight through the watchman's face. He went limp, his arms dangling downwards as blood trickled down the blade lodged in his skull. Taking great care to balance the corpse on his sword, Craft climbed up onto the top of the watchtower, pushing with his sword in the process to stop the body toppling down, before lowering it to rest against the banister.

"_May I recommend in the future, regardless of your desire to keep your thoughts private from me, that you make sure you pay attention to any dangerous situation you are in.''_

Craft frowned angrily at the monotone berate, but knew Inimicus was correct; he couldn't allow his own thoughts to distract him during such a risky time.

Still, he had accomplished his first goal to rid the watchtowers of their masters, and now all that was left was the camp. Looking over the outpost, he took note of the fairly large number of soldiers. Nearly 30 in total occupied the area, so Craft would have his work cut out for him even with his new physical abilities.

"_Don't forget Master Craft, you still need to make sure that none of these soldiers can escape and report back to their superiors."_

"Right…I _had_ been counting on them all to try and kill me over anything else," he muttered, completely serious, "but yes, there is the possibility that some of them may attempt to escape, especially if I am able to begin effectively taking them out in quick order. For all the propaganda of the Imperial Army's bravery, they sure can fold when the deck is stacked against them."

"_Nice analogy."_

"Thank you."

"_Any strategic ideas?"_

Craft's gaze moved to the gate into the camp, the only way in and out. If any of the soldiers made a break for it, that would be the way they would go. He needed to make sure it would be inaccessible, although doing so would prove to be a bit more difficult for him to do so than the elimination of the tower guards, as the gate was in better view of the ground-based units. Any attempts to tamper with it could give him away too soon before he directly engaged them.

But as Craft's nimble mind quickly worked over the issues of targeting the gate, he realized that maybe the detriment of drawing attention to such an action may be able to work in his benefit. Especially with the oil lanterns lining the two sides of the gates.

A fire in the camp would be incredibly distracting to the soldiers, and useful to Craft.

Craft crouched down next to the dead watchman and searched through his uniform pockets, eventually producing a box of bullets. With a satisfied grin, Craft pulled out his own handgun and loaded the bullets from the box into it, metallic clicks adding to his satisfied mood.

"_Caution Master Craft. If you fire that gun, it will most assuredly draw attention to you."_

"Yeah, likely," Craft replied in a hushed voice as he clicked the chamber shut, "but those louts down there are looking rather drowsy. The shot will certainly snap them back to attention but by then I will have hit my required target, and hopefully that will draw their attention over anything else."

"_Still seems risky."_

Craft steadied his gun hand on his other arm's forearm as he aimed at one of the oil lanterns.

"Tell me about it."

Leaning against the wooden side of the gate, the gateman felt his eyes growing heavy, his body warm thanks to both the summer night air and the twin oil lamps, one of which he was directly above.

Thanks to the slowness of the day, he decided there would be no harm in taking a few winks, so he lowered his head down and closed his eyes.

A crack in the air, followed by the sound of breaking iron and glass, shook him back to alertness, as did a suddenly intense heat across the back of his head and neck.

"Wha-AAARRGH!"

The other soldiers in the camp were roused from their easy mind-sets by the same noises, caught in confusion between identifying the sound of the crack or the sound of the shatter. The instinct to determine the latter grew amongst the collective unit when they saw the gateman with a burning back flailing about and screaming in pain amongst a carpet of oil coating the ground, allowing fire to spread across the ground in front of the camp's entrance.

"Fuh-fire!" yelled out one of the soldiers as his mind raced to catch up with what he was seeing, and soon the camp was filled with shouts of the same word.

"Bring water, quick!"

From up on the watchtower, Craft watched keenly at the unfolding chaos to grip the soldiers and as they lifted entire barrels of water to bring them to the blaze to have a reliable source of fluids to douse it with. He grinned when he saw a worthy candidate to be his first target; a soldier who had evidently decided to take a nap behind the water-storage tent, now in the process of walking from around the tent to join his fellow soldiers out in the open.

He wouldn't get the chance, Craft decided, gripping the watchtower's banister and pulling himself over its edge, launching himself towards the ground and to the soldier. The man only had time to look up to see what was obscuring the moonlight on him before Craft had pounced on him, knocking him straight onto his back, his mouth covered before getting Craft's sword stabbed through his neck and slightly into the ground below it.

It didn't take long for the soldier to die and Craft pulled his sword out, turning to focus his attention at the soldiers running towards the blaze, completely missing the death of one of their own. Deciding to keep it that way for as long as he could, Craft kept low as he crept forward towards the end of the tent's cloth wall, watching as the soldiers at the back of the camp ran towards the front to help with extinguishing efforts.

When Craft was sure that the last of these soldiers were about to move past his hiding place in the shadow of the tent, he stole out of the cover and stabbed his sword through the surprised face of a still running soldier, before drawing it out and slashing it so that it cut through the back of the head of the soldier only a few steps in front of the first. Once again, these killings went unnoticed by the panicking soldiers, allowing the sound of Craft's running to mingle with theirs as he caught up to a soldier trailing behind the others and stabbed his sword through his back, covering his mouth as he did to prevent him from crying out.

The other oblivious soldiers were now all gathered in front of the blaze, trying their hardest to put out the blaze using the water barrels and buckets. But it was a losing battle, as the fire had begun to spread to the wooden walls beginning at the two sides of the entrance, made all the more apparent by the form of the burning gatekeeper, having fatally fainted from the fire and was now splayed out outside the camp in a hopeless dash from the fire clinging to him.

"Put it out!"

"We're trying! If case you've forgotten, water can't mix with _oil_! That's what's burning in the first place!"

Speaking of which, the creaking of burning timbers sounded as the burning wooden beam supporting the second oil lamp gave way under its damage and its lamp fell into the flames, resulting in a fiery burst that only worsened the flames.

Seeing this, a soldier with wet hair had a sudden idea.

"I know! If we tip over…some of the water barrels, maybe it'll push the oil out the gates and take the fire with-!"

A bullet tore through the side of his head as he explained his idea to the soldiers next to him, launching him straight into the inferno, becoming little more than an organic fire-feed.

"What the hell!?" a soldier cried out, turning around and getting shot through the eye, before being joined amongst the dead by three more soldiers, each felled by a shot.

The remaining soldiers looked on aghast at the black coated figure striding towards them, smoking gun in hand and sword in the other.

Like before, shouts of disbelief and claims of implausibility at the identity of their attacker met Craft, as did the drawing of their assorted weapons. Having made sure to take out the soldiers he instantly saw had firearms first, Craft holstered his gun, twirled his sword lightly and advanced forward as a faster pace.

Two soldiers charged ahead of the pack, their studded clubs at the ready, and the leading one taking a swing at Craft's head. Craft ducked under the attack and slashed with his sword, cutting into his gut. As his sword had now been used, the second club wielder went after Craft with a swing aimed at his sides. Craft's hand shot out to seize his wrist however, leaving the soldier wide open for him to get stabbed in his own side. Craft pulled his sword out and let the body topple away, advancing on the other soldiers before dodging the knife stab of one of them and swinging his sword upwards to lop off his arm, before slashing down to cut his throat and chest open. Craft ignored the spray of blood on the side of his face, readying himself on the offensive as a spear-bearer stabbed at him, making Craft dodged to the side of two thrusts.

"_Behind you Master Craft."_

Inimicus spoke to Craft, who quickly angled his neck dodge so that the spear thrust ended up striking one of the soldiers that moved to surround him in the stomach.

"Oh god, I'm sorry-!"

The spearman apology was rendered moot by Craft swing his sword in a wide arc, so that both the spearman's and his accidental victim's heads were sliced off. Craft then pulled out the spear from the headless body and hurled it at another soldier, getting it straight through his throat and in the process causing it whizz by the skull of another soldier.

"Fuck!" the latter soldier exclaimed in shock, who was so surprised at being so close to getting speared that he didn't notice Craft make a dash for him, slicing into the bodies of two other soldiers in the process. The distracted soldier was thus unable to react in time beyond turning his head back towards the aggressor in time to get the palm of Craft's hand placed on his chest, from which came the powerful concussive blast. The soldier flew backwards of his feet and landed straight within the still-roaring blaze. For a moment, he was unaware of why he was suddenly so hot, until he saw the flicking inferno around him and his brain registered the pain. A scream escaped his mouth and he tumbled forward onto his hands and knees in a mad bid to crawl from the blaze.

That was when Craft's foot slammed down onto the back of his head just short of getting clear of the fire, pinning him via it to the ground. Craft stood there, watching as the soldier slowly fainted due to the constant burning his own body, before turning around to look at the remaining soldiers, who collectively did not move at Craft's action. A ripple of fear rose amongst them and Craft felt it.

So he gave a calming smile, successfully raising the level of terror within the soldiers.

The smile remained even as he charged towards them, sword at the ready.

The rest of the battle was almost a blur to Craft, but he could still recall the feeling of his sword cutting into and through flesh well enough, as well as the terrified faces of the soldiers as he cut them down one by one. Blood and limbs decorated the air, yells were rendered short and the tranquil summer night long shattered by the slaughter. Craft became little more than a killing machine during this time, deflecting and striking with nary a mistake made on his part, a sense of efficient freedom in every one of his manoeuvres.

Before he knew it, there were only four remaining soldiers to be dealt with; the first one died to a quick cut across the side of the neck, the second got stabbed and his hooked dagger stolen to be used to stab into the back of the third one's thigh by Craft after dodging behind his swing, before he turned to slice his throat open.

This left him in full view of the single remaining soldier. His pupils were dilated, his breathing uncontrollable, the grip of his sword turning his knuckles white.

He didn't know what it was, the blood on his face, his feat worthy of a one-man army or, most likely, the fires behind him illuminating him or the calm look on his face, but right there and then, as the person in question kicked the kneeling body down, the soldier decided that there had never been a more horrifying sight in front of him.

And now he was coming at him, and the soldier could only take a step back before Craft had closed the distance between them in a second; his panicked sword swing was blocked, the sword falling from his hand at the forcefulness of the parry before Craft's own sword stabbed downwards straight through his own foot, pinning it gruesomely to the ground. A shuddering scream came from the action.

"Quiet," commanded Craft, grabbed the soldier by the back of his head and slamming his forehead down onto the hilt of the sword, driving the broader part of it deeper into his foot. Had the impact not dazed him, the soldier would have screamed again as he toppled backwards, blinded by pain before Craft grabbed the front of his uniform, letting him dangle backwards.

"_Why are you not simply killing him Master Craft?"_

Craft observed the dazed soldier, who groaned in pain, before looking down at his free hand, clenching it shut, feeling a significant sliver of new strength within the simplistic action and smiled.

"Because I have a feeling I can initiate one part of the plan. In particular, the 'divide' part."

Inimicus was allowed to view this thought of Craft, and voiced his approval, "As long as you are sure."

"Oh I am. Now, as for you," he looked down at the soldier as he began to obtain some clarity through the blinding pain.

"You…" he seethed, "Others will come, and they'll know what you did here!" he smirked defiantly, "_She'll_ know!"

"Well," Craft chuckled, "You are…half right in that regard."

"…what?"

"I said you're half right," Craft lifted the soldier up so they were nearly face-to-face, "Others will come, but it won't be the one you're thinking off. To that point, I'd like you to act as a messenger for me."

"Pfft…" the soldier spat scornfully, "Why would I do something like that for you? You let me go, I'll tell the General directly what happened and she'll have to come! You might as well kill me now!"

"You're right, maybe I will need to kill you," Craft replied casually, taking the wind out of the soldier.

"_That is if my hunch doesn't work, right Inimicus?"_

"_Sir?"_

"_I've just been thinking; if this new body of mine's identity is created via implanted memories, does this mean I have the ability to affect the memories of others with the Novaregna?" Craft gave a knowing look down the soldier, who was confused at his sudden silence._

And as Craft gradually received the answer in his mind, his smile grew, as did the fear within the soldier as he looked at him with sinister intent.

Then to the soldier's surprise, Craft's hand began to glow, and he began to futilely struggle.

"W-what…what are you going to do?"

Craft frowned, "I already told you," he moved his sand closer, "I'm getting you to deliver a message for me."

About four days passed after the attack on the outpost, during which the single remaining soldier travelled in the opposite direction of said event. For one day he walked until he came across a checkpoint station, from which he stole a horse and had it ride at full speed for three days solid, ignoring how he was practically running it to death. All this, in order to get to the Imperial Capital, a massive, sprawling city of various segments outlined by massive walls, with the palace overlooking the entire thing.

The soldier rode the absolutely exhausted horse through the various buildings until he came to the scientific district, the place where capital-located scientists both resided and worked, either in solitude in socially. Eventually, the soldier drew up to a large workhouse at the furthest end of the district. He got off the horse, letting it slump against the wall and walked over to the door, knocking on it to produce echoing clangs with the structure.

They were heard by a tall man leaning over a table, a tool in each of his rapidly-moving gloved hands, working on the opened ribcage of an unconscious man to replace parts of his bones with a metal membrane. The knocking drew his attention after a moment.

"Ah, visitors," he said cheerfully, setting down the tools and pulling off his gloves, placing the latter items in his coat pocket and he sauntered out the workshop, down a flight of metallic stairs and towards the door. Seizing the handle, it pulled it open with a flourish, "Welcome to my humble little office! How may I be of help?" he peered closer at the soldier, "Especially to a cutie like you?" he added a wink as a cherry on top.

"Actually there is something I need to inform you of, Doctor. Do you have a minute?"

A while later, the messenger had left the scientific district and later exited a drugstore, a bottle of medical pills to be taken only by those with extreme heart conditions in his hand, never returning from the alley he had then ventured down.

Back in the laboratory, the Doctor spun in his swivelling chair, chuckling to himself as he went over the message delivered to him.

"So Victor, you've been keeping secrets from little ol' me, aye?" He grimaced suddenly at an unpleasant memory as he stopped his spinning, "Too bad for you Craft; with your departure, you'll never get to see what it truly means to create something…" he pondered briefly for a new word, but with a smile simply settled on his namesake;

"So incredibly stylish."


	7. Stylish Assault-Waiting

_Alone in his workshop, Craft sat upon a chair in front of a workstation, a table with trays of notes and numerous tools and devices set upon it; tools that included a magnifying glass attached to a small multi-jointed gadget coming out of the wall and a cylinder-shaped item built directly into the table which featured numerous ports for feeding electrical energy into whatever device was plugged into it._

_Both devices were currently in use, as Craft was peering with one squinting eye through the magnifying glass at whatever lay upon the table before him whilst in both in hands, he held a pair of tweezers with the end nearly microscopic to the naked eye in one and a soldering iron in the other, using both in conjunction with the other with a high level of finesse._

_Sparks and smoke rose from the item on Craft's table as he worked on its insides, apparently oblivious to anything besides it, such as the half empty mug of coffee at the table's edge, the fact that he had spent over an hour at work if the clock was any indication, or the individual slowly creeping up on him, a sly smile on his face and his hands poised like claws._

_The figure glided up behind Craft, brought his hands up higher, before-_

"_Don't," the figure locked up comically just as he was about to bring his hands down onto Craft's shoulders, leaving him balancing awkwardly on one foot, "even think about it Stylish."_

_Craft's fellow, but unquestionably more flamboyant, scientific colleague was only able to remain in his frozen pouncing position before he finally wobbled and stumbled to the side, landing against another table. The clatter that followed as Stylish fell against it finally prompted Craft to sigh in annoyance, set down his tools and turned in his chair to face Stylish. Realizing he had Craft's attention, Stylish put on a casual disposing and adjusted his tie._

"_Pardon the intrusion Victor, I just wanted to see how you were getting on. And I'll admit, seeing you bent over with such concentration, I couldn't resist the urge to try and give you a little fright."_

_Craft leaned back and crossed his arms, "And knowing that in doing so, you could have potentially jeopardized what I am working on."_

_Stylish gasped in dismay and clasped both his hands over his heart in one of his classic overreactions._

"_Oh Vic, that hurts me so! We're all on the same side here, why would I wish to cause impediment to a fellow member of our scientific community?" he turned away and turned his nose up into the air, "Honestly, it offends me at how little you know me."_

_Craft gave a humourless grin, "And yet you consider yourself to be a flawless expert in the subject of me, _Gordon_."_

_Stylish's head snapped back around to glare at Craft, this time with real emotion – annoyance._

"_Oi, you know the rules. We all agreed to refer to one another by the names we select for ourselves," he pointed a finger at the impassive Craft, "So don't you go calling me that!"_

"_Then don't call me Victor," Craft calmly replied with a motion of his hand, before pointing the same hand at Stylish with a glare, "And _don't_ sneak up on me whilst I'm working."_

_Stylish raised his hands in a mock surrendering manner, "Oh fine, be like that you old killjoy."_

_He turned to leave and Craft swivelled back around in his chair to get back to work, but before either man could carry out their conversation-ending action, Stylish suddenly perked his head up._

"_Hang on," he turned back around, "Have you…made any progress? You know, on 'it'."_

_Craft did not stop moving his hands as he picked his tools back up and he didn't turn back around to face Stylish either._

"_Honestly, I don't know. Would you like to come over and see for yourself? Maybe you could even help me out with it a little."_

_Stylish's eyes widened and he cocked his head to the side, "Really?" He found himself smiling with excitement but played cool as he posed himself in a thinking manner, his fist against his forehead with the adjourning arm's elbow resting in his other hand, "Well, I guess I could, but I'm not exactly sure I have the time."_

"_You have a point," Craft nodded, "After all; you don't have your special _gloves_ with you."_

_Aside from the clinking of his tools against metal, the room went completely silent. Stylish remained still for a moment, before turning his eyes to look at Craft, or more accurately, the way his hands expertly worked and coordinated themselves on whatever was on his table, all based on nothing more than discipline and skill._

_Stylish then noticed how Craft kept his back turned to him. Under normal circumstances, a turned back would convey a sense of vulnerability. But Stylish sensed nothing of the sort from Craft, instead feeling that getting too close to his rival scientist could prove to be a big mistake._

_So he instead pushed down his anger at Craft insulting his abilities as a scientist and simply shrugged, "Oh Craft, you should know better than to invite another scientist to take a peek at your work. Fortunately for you, I wouldn't even dream of trying to pilfer your progress. Not to worry, I'll see myself out."_

_Stylish gave a little bow and pirouetted about to walk out of the lab, but couldn't help saying one last thing, "You really don't know me at all, you know that."_

_Craft didn't turn to face him even as he closed the door behind him, but did rise his eyes up as he mused over Stylish's last words._

"_Well, if you say so…but that doesn't exactly make it true."_

The memory was one of the few that had come back naturally to Craft due to his recollection of the Jaegers. Others were still slow in returning, but this one had done so especially fast.

Probably due to the fact both he and Stylish had been colleagues, in a loose sense of the word, in the same kind of careers, Craft had theorized as he looked at the plaque outlining his scientific doctorate from his chair, whilst covering the hold to the cavern below his office with a legless table, nailing it down with several discarded nail.

He had done this after retreating from the outpost camp after making sure the fire wouldn't spread and making his way back to the estate. After doing both of these tasks, he had climbed back up the attic within the tower where he had first encountered Inimicus to await Stylish's coming, intending to use both the bird's eye view and Inimicus' own area observing ability to keep an eye out for the Doctor.

_Two-faced, snide, fashion obsessed bastard_, he thought.

"I take it you and this 'Dr Stylish' didn't get on very well?"

Craft turned his head from his position sitting against a wooden pillar to see Inimicus project himself beside him, before pursing his lips and shaking his head.

"Never did. The world of scientific advancement is surprisingly cutthroat, and it was no different between him and I. From what I could tell we were always locking horns over which one of us would be able to break through in our scientific achievements, although, if I'm not mistaken, it was more of a personal struggle for him that it was for myself," Craft suddenly chuckled, "and that's how I knew the message I had that volunteer send for me would have him running here."

"Yes, as long as you are a more powerful individual mentally you will be able to affect the memories of others with the Novaregna."

_Craft's grin widened as he looked down at the terrified soldier and his hand began to glow._

"_W-what…what are you going to do?"_

_Craft frowned, "I already told you," he moved his hand closer, "I'm getting you to deliver a message for me."_

_Acting on instinct, Craft pressed his now brightly glowing hand against the side of the soldier's face, eliciting a yell of shock from him as though he was feeling his very mind being ripped apart, almost like his brain was being minced._

_And although that wasn't happening physically, it was happening in the opposite; transferring the capabilities of the Novaregna through his physical touch, Craft fed the disembodied network into the unfortunate troop's mind, working it's none-existent strands through the thoughts and memories now presented to it like an open book._

_The way Craft himself was able to view this mental expanse was difficult for him to put into words, if he would ever need to that is; he couldn't tell if it was like reading a book or having the thoughts placed inside his own mind for his selection but either way he could see them. And they were his to manipulate._

"_Let's see," he mused to himself, ignoring the soldier's elongated stutters as he went pseudo-catatonic at being mentally invaded, "how do I go about this? Ah, let's see about removing the memories of this little scuffle."_

_Once again going on instinct, Craft focused the Necromotus on the soldier's memories of his attack on the outpost, commanding the system to essential invade the memories, ripping them apart with their weaponized presence. Although there was no change in the soldier's outwards appearance, his memories of the assault where now wiped completely from his mind._

_Now for the harder part, Craft thought to himself, before mentally speaking to Inimicus, "How do I replicate memories?"_

"_Think of something yourself and use the Novaregna to implant them inside his mind."_

"…_a bit more of a description please?"_

"_Ah, I see; think of yourself writing out an essay in your mind of the memory you wish to fabricate."_

"_Think I understand. Here goes,"_

_With his disembodied mind, Craft focused on a fabricated event, putting himself in the perspective of the soldier finding something important, something that would be important to Stylish that is; the work of a fellow Imperial scientist._

_He had been part of an Imperial patrol searching through Craft's manor, under orders to find anything of importance. And eventually he had; within Craft's study the catching of his foot against a loose floorboard had caused it to fully come loose, revealing a hidden cavern with a massive and mysterious item seated within, connected to several wires and cables, making removal of it risky as it could cause irreversible damage to what may be an important item. It was impossible for any of the soldiers to figure out how it worked or to reliably remove it, but Captain Roil understood there was someone who potentially could; another Imperial scientist. This was why he had been dispatched back to the Imperial capital to contact the doctor so that he could come out to the manor and investigate the strange item himself._

_Oh, and was also given the instruction to buy and down some pills that would likely result in his death. No reason why, just because._

"The opportunity to find the work of another scientist and to advance it himself; there's no chance that Stylish wouldn't come running," Craft continued smugly, resting the back of his head against his hands, "And since he's always been an exceptionally shady man, it's more than likely he won't inform the other Jaegers of what he is doing. A real lamp to the slaughter that one," he belted out a chuckle, "Well, at least he'll be very well dressed for it."

Inimicus titled his head.

"But you do not know what you were working on. If fact you do not remember anything about your time as a scientist, aside from when the Jaegers are involved."

"Well…" Craft waved his hand about loftily as he thought how to voice his explanation, "…yeah. But Stylish doesn't know either. On what I was working on, that is, if I remember correctly. So I just need to fabricate some record of someone seeing some gizmo and that'll bring Stylish regardless."

"…I suppose so. But Sir, are you not the least bit curious to what you were working on?"

Craft rolled his eyes, "Not this again…no. There is no reason for me to investigate my previous work. Maybe there will be in the future, but there is no reason or use for it now. Right now all I care about is sticking my sword between Stylish's eyes," he turned to look directly at Inimicus, "And that's the last word I want to hear about this."

Inimicus appeared momentarily taken aback, if the action of drawing his head back slightly was any indication, but he recovered quickly and nodded, "As you wish."

"Good. Now, it usually takes a couple of days or so for someone to arrive here. Knowing Stylish however, he'll have some means of getting here sooner," a though occurred to him and he went temporarily deadpan, "No doubt something perverted and nasty, so go and keep an eye out."

"Understood. I will contact you once I spot his approach, or anyone else's."

With that Inimicus blinked out of existence before Craft, leaving him to mimic a breath and lean back in his sitting position.

_Let's see…_he thought to himself, _what else do I know about Stylish?_

Dredging up old memories, Craft recalled what else he knew about his rival scientist, up to and including the fact that he was always surrounded by his Pawns; physically enhanced humans armed with claws and lobotomized into a state where all they knew was to hunt down anyone Stylish considers an enemy. Craft knew that would include him, and he knew that Stylish would likely bring a load of them. Inimicus, knowing exactly what future opponent he had been referencing about having to face in the future thanks to shared thoughts, had assured Craft that he would be a match for them thanks to the empowerment he had attained from slaughtering that outpost.

Still, Craft recalled that they weren't all that Stylish had. After all, he hadn't been describing them as pawns for nothing, and in chess there weren't just pawns to worry about.

For probably the first time, Craft felt…unsure. It felt unnatural to him, and he bit his lip more out of realisation of this fact, for more than the reason why he felt anxious in the first place.

Had he overestimated himself? Was he actually unprepared for what Stylish could throw at him?

He thought about consulting Inimicus over his concerns, having been keeping them amongst his 'private thoughts', but that would likely require the Armour to come back down to him and deprive him of his duty to keep an eye out for approaching invaders. Besides, if he was instinctively hiding these thoughts from Inimicus, who was he to ignore his own instincts?

In fact, he probably shouldn't be ignoring them at all, he reasoned; if he felt himself ready to deal with Stylish's minions, before taking out the Doctor himself, then that was exactly what he was going to do.

Hours passed as Craft waited, keeping himself occupied with several practise slashes with his sword, testing himself in how much control he had in his swings and how quickly he could either reign them in or redirect them in the need would arise.

Would have been more practical to take notes of this during the fighting with those Imperial guards, but the fact he had been able to deal with them so effectively must mean his level of control was adequate, or even above that, considering the experience would have strengthened him.

He also made sure that he had brought back with him plenty of ammo for his handgun, kept in their original belts and stored within the inner pockets of his leather coat. He had practised the speed at which he could reload, and had soon gotten to the point where he could reload the full magazine in less than three seconds.

Enhanced bodily abilities to the help once again, he mused. In fact anything he could do he could probably chalk up to his new form.

He brightened up briefly at the unofficial categorization, but boredom came rushing back in the next instance.

"Ack…where is he? Why isn't he here yet?" he blinked and put a hand to his forehead, "Oh god I'm starting to wish for his presence." He chuckled, "I really am going insane; I'm wishing for Stylish's presence now. To kill him maybe, but still, an upgrade over the days I just wanted him not seen and neither heard."

"…Are you talking to me?"

Craft blinked before turning to see Inimicus standing next to him, and he suddenly felt embarrassment for the first time. He brushed himself down and gave himself a mini-shake, playing off his rant as a quick stretching process.

"No, just mulling to myself," he mumbled, before coughing into his hand and facing Inimicus fully with a reinitiated air of authority, "Now, why are you here? I thought I told you to keep an eye out for Stylish…"

The penny dropped quickly and Craft's eyes widened as he realized;

"He's here isn't he?"

Inimicus bobbed his head, "Yes. And he has not come alone. Look out."

Craft turned towards Inimicus in confusion just as a knife swung through the air straight at his face.

Dozens of miles away from the estate stood a five-person group of several people with augmented body parts and a man in a lab coat with his arms crossed in a confident commanding manner. One of the altered people, a young girl with massive oversized ears, listened intently.

"Trooma has engaged the target, the one Me was able to spot."

"Excellent, excellent; has he been successful?"

The girl, Mimi, cocked her head to the side as she listened in more.

"No. The target has been able to react in time. A struggle is now ensuing."

Craft's eyes were as wide as saucers before they narrowed at the point of the knife that had nearly gone through his forehead had he not reacted in time to cross his arms in front of his face.

The knife-wielder, a man with red, wild hair and an open trench coat exposing his stitch-covered chest, was now as surprised as Craft had been at his target reacting in time.

"What!" Trooma exclaimed in surprise, "No one is able to see me com-WHOA!"

He suddenly leaned to the side as Craft reached out, grabbed his sword and swung it out, all in the same second. And by leaned, the meaning was that he bent his upper half by 180 degrees so that his upper torso was directly next to his legs. Craft was so taken aback by the spectacle that Trooma got the opportunity to support himself on his palms and twist his legs upwards with the momentum of a wounded spring so that his feet smacked Craft across the face. His head snapped to the side and a flick of blood (?) flew from his mouth, but he recovered quickly and glared at his attacker hatefully from where his face had been forcefully pushed before shooting out a hand to grab a told of Trooma's ankle now suspended in the air, swinging him about with his superhuman strength, prompting a squawk of surprise from him before he was slammed in the wooden with enough force to rattle the structural support, before stabbing his sword at Trooma's exposed chest. Trooma, in spite of having been planted into the wall, stabbed his knife down so that it connected with the flat of Craft's sword, allowing him to push himself upwards using the same sword that then stabbed the pillar instead of him. The shoe of Trooma's non-held leg suddenly sprouted a sharp blade which was then swung through the air towards Craft's face, forcing him to dodge backwards, pulling his sword out of the wall and more importantly releasing Trooma's ankle on impulse. The attacker dropped down into a crouch on the floor before pouncing towards Craft, grinning wildly as a knife slid out of his coat sleeve so that he could dual wield the weapons.

The tiny blades were tough for Craft to properly defend against with his sword, but he was still able to prevent himself getting directly cut. His lucky streak came to an end, however, when Trooma pressed both his blades against Craft's sword, forcing him to lean backwards against the clash, and snaked his leg out to plant it behind Craft's own before drawing it forward sharply, tripping him backwards. Craft landed with a thud on his back, his sword spinning from his grasp. Quickly, he drew his pistol out, but then Trooma's heel stomped down on his wrist, pinning it to the ground and unknowingly ridding Craft of the use of the concussive blast it bore. Craft was then further pinned when Trooma dropped down onto his knee to place it against Craft's chest, his hand grapping Craft's neck.

As Craft struggled against the lean man's unexpected strength with a hand on his wrist, gurgling through his gripped neck as he did, Trooma leered down at him with a wide-eyed look of excitement, twirling his knife about.

"Oh how fun. A guy so full of vitality will be well received by Doctor Stylish."

The mention the hated name galvanized Craft's mind back on the track of efficiency just as the knife was stabbed down at his neck; acting quickly, he used his free hand to knock the downwards zooming knife to the side so that it stabbed into the ground before angling his gun as far as he could and firing it…

"Stupid old fool, nowhere near-!"

…so that it smashed through the wooden boards of the attic roof, sending several splinters of wood falling down, including an extra-large piece which Craft's hand shot out to grab and stab into Trooma's neck. The altered human looked down at the puncture and gurgled in shock. He tried to grab at the shank of wood but Craft created another predicament for him by snatching the dagger out of Trooma's hand and stabbed it into the other side of his neck, prompting more gargles from him before Craft was able to throw him off and roll back to his feet. Trooma continued to paw desperately at the two items in his neck before Craft aimed his gun and fired three shots directly into Trooma's face, reducing it to pulp.

Craft wiped his mouth, ignoring the greenish tint the blood on his finger had.

"Punk."

"Shots fired. Trooma is down sir," reported Mimi.

"Oh dear, that is a shame."

Doctor Stylish grinned and pulled his Perfector gloves further onto his hands his lab coat billowing around him in the late night air.

"But sometimes a Knight's sacrifice is the Pawn's gain."

Craft reloaded the four used bullets in his gun, before a sound drew his attention; the sound of clattering metal parts and breathy hisses. They came from all around him, from outside and below him. Craft turned his head, eerily calm, to see the masked faces staring at him through the gaps of the wooden spire's structure. He aimed his gun forward and tightened his hold on his recovered sword.

"Let the games begin."


	8. Stylish Assault-Targeted Ends

The only reason the Pawns did not instantly overwhelm Craft was because he was faster than their action of them all leaping towards him in the same moment, breaking through the wooden walls of the attic; Craft's gun came up and holes were blasted through the masks of several Pawns, giving Craft an opening for him to lunged forward and breach through the horde so that he avoided getting dog piled by the Pawns. As the group of converged Pawns got entangled in a mess of limbs and torsos, others, not part of the initial charge, came through the holes made by their brethren to get at Craft, eager to succeed where the others had failed. However, as they lack the immediate numbers to attempt another synchronized lunge, they had to enter in a more conserved manner, giving Craft much more leeway to fight them with.

A Pawn came at Craft, swiping as he came through the hole with his metallic talons. The according arm was sliced off by Craft's sword before it sliced through the Pawn's face, and its mask in the process. Craft ignored the chance to see just what Stylish did "facially" to his Pawns to whip around and drive the sword through the chest of another Pawn. But its vitality proved surprising as it grabbed onto his wrist even within its death throes, intent on keeping him trapped for other Pawns to get at him, which came in the form of some of the members in the mess of collided Pawns finally getting themselves unstuck. Three of them lunged at Craft, who swung the impaled Pawn around by the word going through its gut, using it as a shield for the three lunging Pawns to collide against. Craft leaned back as the Pawns attempted to overpower his strength, and he aimed his gun and fired a single shot so that it went through all three heads of the struggling Pawns. As more Pawns attempted to take their place, Craft drew his sword upwards, cutting the entire upper torso of the stabbed Pawn in half, freeing himself to bring the butt of his gun down onto the skull of the nearest Pawn, caving it halfway in with his inhuman strength, before aiming said gun to fire more shots at Pawns, in particular the ones that came a hair's breathe of colliding with him.

Suddenly, he got grabbed from behind by a Pawn, which had come from one of the holes behind him. Craft found his arms pinned to his side by the strength of the enhanced human, leaving him completely open for another Pawn to come at him. With his arms trapped, Craft brought his leg up and kicked the Pawn in the chest with a blow that shattered all of its rips and raptured its organs. The Pawn was sent flying backwards and smashed through the remaining Pawns that had been part of the initial collision, causing them to scatter whilst the kicked Pawn smashed out the other side of the attic wall.

Me watched the falling Pawn until it smashed down onto the hard ground below, wincing as he saw the skull smash against the stone courtyard and splattering it with blood.

"There goes another one Master Stylish," he reported, "Not a pretty thing to watch."

"You should try hearing it," Mimi said, her giant ears twitching at the sounds of battle coming from the spire's peak.

"Now, now kiddies," Stylish announced, clapping his gloved hands together, "Let's not let petty squabbling get in the way of taking out our target."

"Oh! You're absolutely right Doctor!" the third member of the Doctor's recon team, Hama, snorted smoke from his overly long nose, "It is that obnoxious cur that needs out immediate attention to snuff out!"

"Indeed my dear Hama" Stylish grinned, "which is why in a game of chess, you never approach from a single angle."

As this conversation started, Craft continued to do battle with their fellow Team Stylish members.

He threw himself back and slammed the Pawn still holding onto him into a pillar, and although it still held its grip on Craft, it weakened considerably, allowing Craft to reverse his hold on his sword and stab it through his side. In its death throes, the Pawn released Craft and he pulled his sword out with a wide swing, slicing through the neck of the next pawn to come at him, before decapitating another Pawn with a second slice. More Pawns came at him from both the sides and the front, Craft slashing out with his sword multiple times to cut into, or in some cases, through their bodies. A Pawn came at Craft as he was whirling and slashing, and as it slashed out with both its claws, one after the other, Craft chopped these off before swinging his sword downwards and bifurcating it.

_Is there no end to these wretched things?_ He thought to himself, right before this proved true as, coinciding with Stylish's comment on angles outside, a Pawn smashed its way through the wooden ground below him and grabbed a hold of his ankles. Before he could yell in surprise, Craft was dragged downwards through the floor and into a series of beams that made up the lower inside of the tower.

Craft landed against one of the larger beams, grunting at the hard impact whilst his legs landed against another one, leaving him lying there suspended. His ankles where still being held by the Pawn that had pulled him down, so Craft aimed his gun and fired two rounds, scoring a hit on its shoulder and head. Kicking away the corpse, Craft looked about himself to see more Pawns working their way through the wooden beams, twisting their flexible bodies as they made a beeline for him. Craft quickly reloaded his gun and fired multiple times, taking down the Pawns closest to him to try and prevent himself getting swarmed. But one managed to slip by his gunfire and grabbed a hold of his wrist, digging its metal claws into his flesh. Craft grunted and stabbed the Pawn's back repeatedly until it released him. He was able to pull himself up slightly to stand precariously on the beams, letting him better fight against the Pawns as they came for him, firing his gun at the ones furthest away and slashing at the ones that came closest, pivoting himself about as he did from beam to beam in a strange kind of fighting dance.

But then a stray slash from a claw clipped Craft's back, and he yelled in pain as it caused him to lurch forward, his foot slipping from the beam and causing him to fall a way before his chest slammed onto another beam. White-hot daggers of pain shot through his chest before another Pawn pounced at him, grapping him by the shoulders and forcing him through one of the sides of a pyramid of beams. Clawed hands of other Pawns shot through the crannies of the hollow pyramid, grabbing onto his legs and arms and chest, trapping him in the miniature structure. Craft gritted his teeth and struggled to try and free himself, but even with his augmented strength, it was not yet at a level that would allow him to throw off all of his attackers at once. Thousands of red glowing eyes peered at him from behind their masks, and Craft knew they were only a few moments from digging their claws into his flesh and tearing him apart.

So he had to do something desperate; he opened his palm, revealing the black stone in it, angled it as best he could, and unleashed its concussive blast.

"Ah!" Mimi clutched at her massive ears, and the others could see why; the tower they were watching suddenly had a huge chunk of itself and half the roof blown into a rain of splintered planks, along with the broken bodies of about a dozen Pawns.

"My word," mused Stylish, "If that's what Victor was working on, then this little exertion will have been worth it."

"Whatever 'it', is," Mimi mused, digging her pinkie into her ear canal to try and alleviate the ringing, "is very strange. I can't hear its breath, or its heartbeat."

Stylish rubbed his chin as he pondered, "Sounds like an Organic-Type Imperial Arm, like the kind dear Seryu has."

_But if it was, my recon team would have taken notice of another individual in the area, serving as its master_, Stylish internally thought to only himself, his mind playing on all possibilities, _so what is it exactly?_

Amidst a shower of broken planks and small splinters, Craft crashed through the structure of the tower until he finally broke through the top of the main hall's ceiling. In spite of the pain racking his body from firing his own explosive blast so close to himself, as he fell towards the ground, he automatically twisted himself about to land on his feet like a cat.

"_Inimicus!"_ he mentally bellowed.

"_Yes sir?"_

"Aren't you supposed to be helping me in some way?" As Craft drilled the disembodied voice, he looked around himself for any more Pawns, including up at the hole he had just made.

"_How so? I lack physical form."_

"_Well, you can sense things in the vicinity right? Maybe do _that_ so I don't get blindsided again!"_

"_Ah yes, I see. Good suggestion."_

"…_Well! Aren't you going to do it?"_

"_Oh course. To your right."_

Craft bit back a particularly insulting word he had in mind – both figuratively and literally – at Inimicus since it was quite clear to him already that there were two new problems just know entering the hall to fight with him; two abnormally massive Pawns, both wearing robes that bustled with the bundles of muscles they had. They had their arms behind their backs in an almost formal manner, but Craft could tell they would unfurl in a split second in order to crush him.

His sword; where was his sword? It would probably be useful.

"_It's to your left. And yes, it would be."_

"…_Thanks."_

Craft darted his eye to his side for a brief moment, not confident keeping his gaze off the two massive Pawns, and sure enough say it was a little to his left. He kept his look on the still miraculously motionless massive pawns more a moment longer, before darting towards the weapon. This finally prompted the two 'Goliaths' to break towards him, moving in sync beside each other for a moment before splitting up to come at Craft from different angles. One was able to get directly in his way in his sprint for the sword, bringing its clenched fist down at him. Craft skidded to a halt and dodged backwards in the span of a second as the fist smashed into the wooden floor, splintering the ground. Craft aimed his gun at the Goliath's face but was blindsided by the other Goliath slamming its fist into his fist, sending him flying back to smash against the wall opposite. Craft fell forward from the impact into a kneeling position as he got back a hold of his composure. Looking up at his opponents, Craft bared his teeth before breaking into another sprint, this time directly towards the Goliaths. As he came close, one Goliath came forward at him and drew back its fist to swing it at him. The moment it did, Craft dodged to the side and aimed his gun at the head of the Goliath that had punched at him.

And as he predicted, the other Goliath came at him with a punch of its own aimed at his chest; Craft dodged backwards a second time in the same direction, changing the aim of his gun to point at the second Goliath. This time, the position of the second Goliath meant that the first one couldn't intercept Craft's action in time so when Craft fire his gun, all three bullets struck the Goliath's face. Although the augmented human's skull was tough enough to take the projectiles, it was still enough to leave a sizeable impact that caused the Goliath's vision to blur and blood to seep from the repeatedly struck point of impact. In frustration, the other Goliath offered no sympathy to its wounded comrade, shoving it aside to try and get at Craft. Craft ducked under its attempt to grab him and dived forward between its legs, turning himself over in the process to aim his gun to fire it into the middle of the Goliath's legs. This naturally proved a more sensitive target than the other Goliath's head, and it doubled over in silent agony. Getting back to his feet after the slide, Craft then rammed into the back of the Goliath, knocking it onto its front as Craft then jumped over his sprawled figure to get at his sword, finally being able to snatch it up. As the collapsed Goliath attempted to get up, pushing itself up on its palms, Craft swung the sword upwards; in contrast to the forceful way it was slashed upwards, it was settled almost gently up against the Goliath's neck before being draw across sharply, slitting open the Goliath's throat. Seeing the demise of its partner as it attempted to staunch the bleeding of its head with its palm, the remaining Goliath prepared to lunge at Craft, but the latter beat him to it, lunging forward with his arm outstretched, his hand pressing against the Goliath's face so that when the concussive blast went off, the entirety of its head was sheared away.

Craft mimicked a breath, before mentally communicating with Inimicus; _"Any left?"_

"_Some of these "Pawns", are still in the vicinity, and have yet to enter the estate's grounds. Apparently what you just fought was to soften you up."_

"_That always was how Stylish planned to do things," _mused Craft, before recalling some more of his tactics_, "He would also plan a coordination point for himself, observing the battlefield with enhanced-sense people. See if you can spot him."_

"_One moment."_

A brief pause followed, during which Craft's eyes flickered about to make sure no more Pawns were going to come at him.

"_I think I've found him. It's beyond my actual sensors, but I can still see from them, and I have spotted him on a large hill to…_" another pause, _"the south-west of where we are now."_

"_Right_," thought Craft, "_You see anyone with him?"_

Pause from Inimicus, then;

"Yes."

"Anything weird about them?"

"There's a woman with large ears and a man with an elongated nose."

"_Ah_," Craft nodded, "_That's his reconnaissance team. They use enhance senses to help him view the battlefield from afar. He pitched it one time to me_." Craft grew worried, _"They might be a problem; they could sense me before I could get close enough. In fact, if we weren't communicating mentally, they'd probably be really confused to hear me talking to myself."_

"_You'd probably appear ridiculous."_

"What's going on in there?"

"Dunno Doctor Stylish; the guy's been almost motionless for the better part of a minute."

"_And vulnerable_," Craft mentally muttered.

"_Indeed. You may need a way to cover your approach, if that reconnaissance team are as good as I am seeing you think they are."_

Craft rolled his eyes but said nothing on his annoyance, only on possible options on how to counter Stylish's look-out.

His eyes drifted to the corpses of the Pawns now littering the floor of the main hall and he recalled something else Stylish had described about the product of his work.

"_Inimicus, I have an idea."_

"_I know."_

"Well this is ridiculous, whoever that is has to be doing something," Stylish groused, "I don't see any reason why they'd be just standing still."

Hama blew steam out of his noise in equal frustration, "I can't even smell hormones or sweat coming off this guy, so I can't tell his emotional state! Is he panicking, is he planning, is he calm? I can't tell!"

"Oh don't get in a tizzy," Stylish waved his hand, "If it can't be helped, it can't be helped."

Hama breathed out in relief, "Oh thank you Master Stylish, that does put me at ease."

"My pleasure," Stylish chuckled, whilst inwardly he thought,_ No hormones produced for Hama to smell out, and the poison I'm sending into the building via my Pawns isn't working on them. More and more evidence stacking up for our little friend being an Organic-Type Imperial Arm, but that doesn't answer the question of where its master is._

"Wait," Mimi spoke up, her hand against her ear, "He's saying something; 'Maybe these things will have some clue on who's attacking me'."

Stylish's glasses appeared to glint, "Ah, so he's gonna prod about the bodies of our poor old Pawns," from his pocket, he drew out a disconnected switch device, and he grinned almost savagely, "Let's make the most of their sacrifice."

"I hope you know what you're doing Master Craft," Inimicus warned, "If they really do what you say they can do, then this is very risky."

"And nothing else about this has been?" Craft replied sarcastically. He was currently walking over to the nearest motionless Pawn, and in spite of his relaxed stroll over to it, his muscles were tensed tightly for what he knew was coming next, "Got to time this just right…"

He crouched down next to the Pawn and sure enough it started to glow yellow, as did all the other Pawns. Craft pushed himself backwards, turning about as he did, as the combined might of the explosion tore the floor of the main hall and the attic apart.

"There it goes!" Stylish announced as he and his team witnessed the explosion, and how the damage to the spire's inside broke it in the middle and caused it to collapse downwards to smash onto the courtyard ground, "TIMBER!" He laughed, "There! That ought to have taken care of our issue," he then grew sombre and braced his fist against his forehead, "But at the cost of a great many of our Pawns."

"Oh, don't feel bad Doctor Stylish," implored Mimi.

"Yes, they didn't die in vain," reasoned Me.

"It was an honour for them, I'm sure," sang Hama.

"Oh, I can only hope so," Stylish said passionately, but was actually thinking something along the lines of_, Eh, forget them_, before getting back to business.

"Mimi, can you hear our annoying pest anymore?"

"One moment Doctor Stylish," Mimi cupped her hand to her ear, "My ears are ringing a little from the blast."

Which was exactly what Craft had been counting on.

The moment all the Pawns had exploded, Craft had rushed backwards out the door of the main hall, and running across the courtyard and out the gates, using the deafening blast to make sure Stylish's super-hearing assistance couldn't hear him. What's more, he had chosen to run through south to Stylish's position in the south-east, knowing that Stylish would keep his farsighted assistant on the building he had just been in on account on believing he had been caught in the explosion.

Now he was running down the dusty main path, scanning the area to his right with his keen eyes, looking out for…

Him.

Standing on a hill, surrounded by those three reconnaissance units of his, staring smugly at the wreckage of what had once been his home.

Craft was so giddy, that he nearly forgot to check in with Inimicus.

"_No, there are no Pawns in the immediately vicinity. Plenty of time for you to do what you need to do."_

"_Good."_

Stylish felt an uncanny urge to shiver, and not because he was feeling the usual pleasurable tingle he got from being in an isolated company with a member of the same sex. Almost as though there was someone watching him.

Well, two could play at that game, and one of them on other levels. Which is why he struck one of his patented poses and gestured at Mini.

"My dear Mimi, can you hear him?"

"No, not anymore, not from that direction," she reported.

"Observation 1 noted," Stylish then pointed dramatically towards Me, "Up next, observation 2."

Me shielded his eyes from the moon, scanning the grounds and even the inside of the main hall through the tiniest cracks.

"No, I cannot see him."

Stylish then gave a final jab of his thumb towards Hama in yet another of his dynamic poses, "And you my good fellow? Does the nose now know?"

_This time_, Hama thought to himself, _this time, I won't let you down Doctor Stylish. I will sniff something out for you!_

Hama drew himself up to his full height and took a great five second sniff, drawing into his altered nostrils the scents of the surrounding area. He picked up on woodland smells, the dust from the estate's rubble, the sweet manly musk of Doctor Stylish…

And the scene of gunpowder. Right behind them. Being ignited.

"Doctor Stylish!"

It was on pure instinct and enhanced human ability that Hama threw himself in front of Stylish's exposed back just a bullet whizzed through the air. Instead of hitting Stylish's back, it went into Hama's forehead.

By the time Stylish had finally whipped around in surprise, Hama's corpse was already crumbling to the ground, the blood from the entry wound remaining in the air a brief second, obscuring Stylish's vision before it finally fell to earth.

And Stylish saw Victor Craft standing before him, a smoking gun pointed in his direction. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out. His eyes widened, the orbs frozen in shock, his heart practically stopping as he saw the figure of the man he knew should be dead, who was regarding not him but the situation with slight annoyance.

"Dammit I missed," Craft clicked his tongue as he quickly reloaded the spent bullet, starting the process of closing the gun's magazine whilst casting a casual smirk at Stylish, "Hello Stylish. I understand if you're a bit surprised at seeing me. Here. Alive. After you helped kill me."

He clicked the magazine shut, his face having morphed from one of false bemusement to that of deadpanned anger, "How the tables turn, aye? Oh," he raised his finger as though he had remembered a point in a discussion, "and also, don't call on the rest of your lackeys," he aimed his gun "You'll be dead before they get here."

"Stand back Doctor Stylish!" Me stated, taking a stance in front of the doctor, "I shall carry on Hama's mission and protect you!"

"As shall I!" Mimi added, putting her arm out in front of Stylish's chest, staying like that for a moment before noticing the Doctor hadn't responded to what she or Me had said, "…doctor?"

She and Me, rather unwisely, turned to look at Stylish, their mouths opening in surprise when they saw the alien look on his face; one of complete shock and absolute disbelief.

"You…you're dead. The General _killed_ you. You're _dead_."

Craft nodded.

"A lot of people keep saying that. To be honest, they might be right. After all, this," he raised a hand and Stylish's eyes somehow widened even further when he saw a white ethereal glow rise from the fingers, "isn't something people with 'life' can do."

"…how?"

Craft gave that casual smile of his again; whether it was his past life's rivalry with Stylish acting up or a newfound sense of superiority from seeing him quake in his boots, he felt compelled to answer Stylish's inquiry. After all, he knew all his tricks and could take on his forces, so what did he have to worry about?

"Come on Stylish; you're meant to be smart. Figure it out."

He saw Stylish's eye twitch, his own past animosity breaking through the fear of seeing a dead man in front of him.

"Come on Stylish; it can be your last scientific achievement before I bury you right here, and right now," the last part was a soft snarl, and it did the trick to finally promote some reaction from Stylish. In spite of the terror-sweat on his brow, Stylish glared right back at Craft.

"You and your arrogance Victor. You think you're control of everything," he spoke as though the sheer impossibility of the situation for him had broken him so thoroughly he had reverted all the way back to normal speaking norms.

"Well, I am the one holding the gun. And I'm willing to bet you were stupid enough to come here without telling anybody or putting in a notice."

Stylish couldn't help but let his eyes flicker to the side, and Craft knew he had hit the nail on the head. He continued,

"You see? You're the one who thinks they're in control of everything. But guess what? The only reason you came here is because I _made_ it happen. You just couldn't resist the allure of pirating another scientist's work," Craft gave a faux sympathetic look, "It's almost tragic, isn't it?"

"Made it happen…" Stylish's eyes widened, and Craft saw some tumblers turn in his eyes, "You made it happen…did you make _that_ happen."

Craft smirked and took a hold of his coat's collar, "You're very slow for someone in the scientific sector," he pulled the fold of clothing down enough to show Stylish the black stone embedded in his chest.

Stylish stared at the stone, then Craft, then the stone again.

"Did you…?" he looked at Craft again, "You did. You did _it_ didn't you?"

"Hmm…maybe," Craft couldn't help but chuckle a little mid-words, "I don't even know myself. Massive holes up here," he tapped the side of his forehead, "But I'm pretty sure it has to do with this stone in my chest."

"What is that a…?" Stylish ventured, almost hoarsely.

Craft's grin widened, "Oh yes old friend; this is my Imperial Arm. How I came to acquire it I admit I do not know. But it is mine, and it has allowed me to come back from death itself, and I am going to use it, and all the power that it gifts me," he took a step forward, and Stylish jerked backwards in fright, "to kill you and your fellow Jaeger scum," he pulled back the hammer of his gun, "For as little as you will remain in this world, know it now as the Novaregna."

Stylish blinked, looking at his Perfector gloves, then back at Stylish.

"The Novaregna?"

Craft's finger paused before pulling the trigger, his eyebrow rising in bemusement.

"Stylish, I would have never imagined you wouldn't have heard of such a thing. After all, we both appeared to work closely with these legendary weapons."

Now it was Stylish's turn to chuckle.

"I could say something similar to you Victor, but in the opposite, as it were."

"Huh?"

Stylish rolled his eyes.

"Victor; there is no record of any kind of an Imperial Arm called the Novaregna. In fact, this is the first time I have ever heard of it."

Craft shrugged, "Then this is merely one of those lost Imperial Arms."

"'Lost' does not equal 'unknown', Victor. The names of all these Imperial Arms were recorded. Their abilities may have been shrouded in mystery and their location unknown, but their names were never forgotten. And none of them were ever called the Novaregna," he gestured as he spoke the last point like he was repeating a point to a stubborn child."

"But…" Craft was beginning to feel the panicky pricks of doubt, "It has to be an Imperial Arm. What else could have the ability to of resurrected me?"

"It is, you dummy," chided Stylish, "Just not one of the original 48."

"What…but then…?" Craft said, loudly, "How does this even exist then?"

"It's the exact same reason _you _have ownership of it," Stylish's smile dropped and envious venom came into his voice, "because _you_ Victor…_created_ it."


	9. Stylish Assault-Seeing the Dead Man

"…oh."

Craft spoke as though he had told an interesting bit of trivia, his eyes widening in a merely casual manner. Stylish, having spread his hands dramatically as he revealed the Novaregna's origin, lost his smile a second or two after Craft's reaction.

"…'oh'? 'Oh'? 'Oh'! Is that it?" he exclaimed in disbelief, his voice climbing to higher levels of volume.

Craft recoiled little, in an almost comical manner, at Stylish's outburst, "What do you mean, 'is that it'?"

Stylish reached in hands out in a disbelieving manner, as though he wanted to throttle Craft into having a bigger reaction, "You know what I mean you creatively-sterile dullard! I just told you that you created a new additional to a collection of legendary weapons that existed since the dawn of the Empire, and your reaction is 'Oh'? 'Oh'!? You should be stunned silent, you should be shaking with disbelief, you should be claiming _it isn't possible_! How are you not more surprised by this!?"

Craft cast his gaze up, keeping his awareness and pistol on Stylish however, as he genuinely considered the inquisition.

"Hmm…good question. Maybe I'm holding back my complete and utter surprise by the fact you could be trying to deceive me."

Even as he said the words, however, Craft couldn't help but doubt them himself; what reason would Stylish have to lie to him about his recreation of an ancient artefact? If he was trying to unbalance or anger him, he would have belittled his achievements, not explain to him they were in the realm of impossibility. Maybe the opposite _was_ true, and in his old life he would have reacted with surprise and disbelief. However, his own ego, as it was now, appeared to be rather strong, since even as he reasoned that Stylish might be telling the truth, he had not strongly reacted.

The doubt may not have been strong, but it was there, and Stylish's sharp mind was able to latch onto it. His annoyance overcome by his usual smugness, he chuckled, straightening back up and smoothing down his lab coat.

"You hide it well, but I can see even you have your limits towards surprises."

"Well, if you were expecting this to be some sort of earth-moving revelation, I'm afraid I've let you down; but don't worry," he pulled back the hammer of his gun, the click echoing in the silence of the standoff, "I'll be putting you out of your misery very soon."

"Oh…" Stylish looked rather downcast, "Really?"

Craft smiled cheerfully, "_Really_."

"No chance of any last, parting words from either of us?"

"_Careful Master Craft; I sense two presences coming towards our location. Stylish is clearly trying to keep you distracted so they have time to get here."_

Craft pretended to think, chewing the corner of his mouth. He then locked eyes with Stylish, and the rival scientist sensed his answer, for in Craft's eyes was the cold, unfeeling emotion of purely efficient hatred. He had only time to raise his hands in futile defence of himself.

BANG

Or so it had seemed.

For Craft, his sense of surprise had just heightened upon seeing Stylish _holding_ the fired bullet between his thumb and forefinger. His excited smiling face showed his prevailing emotion of arrogance in spite of his shaking hand.

His _gloved_ hand to be exact, which bore the Imperial Arm Perfector, known for its power to increase both the wearer's finger dexterity, and their speed.

"Well…" Stylish giggled, like a child who just figured out how a new toy worked, "My Imperial Arm really does have a wide range of stylish uses."

Craft would have quickly fired again had his senses not picked up on an attack; if he hadn't dodged backwards in that moment, it would have been his arm to have been sheared off by a giant pair of scissor blades. Instead, it was his gun that was forcibly halved.

"Yes Kaku!" cheered Stylish, Craft getting a good look at the buff man with an afro haircut, comically oversized metal arms and a massive pair of scissors in the hands of the latter. An excited leer was on the muscular cyborg's face as he swung the flat of the scissors into Craft, who only had time to cross his arms in as much defence as he could get before he was swatted away, his feet skidding across the grass.

"Your turn Toby!"

Even with Stylish's mocking commands, Craft had Inimicus to tell him of the second opponent standing behind him; with one arm held behind his own back, 'Toby' lashed out with his other arm, which had sprouted a metal blade. Still skidding backwards, Craft was able to turn himself about to slash at Toby as he made his own move, the former's sword and latter's blade slashing together in a shower of sparks. Craft saw a helmeted and bespectacled young man with a robe-like garb before him, a calm little grin on his face, before he used the momentum of his halted backwards-skid to end the blade lock, shoving Toby backwards. The cyborg landed deftly next to Kaku, the two facing Craft as Stylish cackled behind them.

"Excellent you two, perfect timing!"

"Thank goodness they got here in time Doctor Stylish."

"Yeah, we were really worried for a moment."

"Oh yeah," Stylish cast a glance at Me and Mimi with disinterested, "forgot you two were still here."

"Wha…?"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," sniffed Stylish, ignoring their hurt looks and focusing back on Craft, clasping his hands behind his back and leaning forward to pronounce his smirk, "These two fine fellows are my Bishop and Knight. You may have taken out my knight Trooma but he was always more of a sneaker than a scuffler. Against these two's better expertise in fighting, you aren't going to last long Victor."

"…tch…" Craft sized up his two opponents, noting the way they carried themselves confidently and ready to pounce at any given moment. In particular, he looked over the scissors that Kaku wielded; they were comically oversized and had a _panda_ sticker on the purple handles, but Craft knew he was looking at an Imperial Arm. Getting hit with that would be a very bad turn of events.

"Okie-dokie you two, I'm gonna go on ahead. Take special care of him for me would you?" he kissed the air towards them in an encouraging manner, "_Very_ special care."

Kaku stroked the blades of his scissors with a robotic hand whilst Toby spread his footing out with his hands behind his back. Craft kept his shifting gaze on the two of them, but still took note of Stylish's comment.

"What do you mean 'going on ahead'?"

"Well, you don't honestly expect me _not_ to suspect you might have something in that dingy old manor of yours worth looking for. After all, you came back somehow, and I'm betting it's somewhere in that house."

At first, Craft inwardly scoffed; the Novaregna wasn't something physical. According to Inimicus it was a disembodied network that his mind was now a part of. It couldn't be destroyed because there was nothing of it that _could_ be destroyed, and _he_ couldn't be destroyed he'd just keep coming back from…

The pit. The pit beneath his study where he had had wakened up after his brushes with death. Given the fact, it was practically a certainty it had a connection to the Necromotus. Right now, the hole in the floor serving as its entrance had been covered up quickly with a de-legged table from the main hall nailed into the floor around it, but that wouldn't stop Stylish from finding it, nor going looking for it.

And indeed, Stylish set about that task immediately, snapping his fingers. From the treeline came an odd rumbling and a truly perverse mode of transportation came from the trees. It was a nine-man crew of modified humans, all running on their hands and feet. They were linked together by collars around their necks connected via grid of iron poles, keeping them all clustered together so that they could supported a platform featuring a box-covered seat on their backs.

Crafts face scrunched up into a look of pure disgusted bewilderment as the 'chariot' zoomed by Stylish, the scientist hoisting himself up onto its platform even though it didn't come to a halt in the slightest. His two remaining reconnaissance units panicked and jumped on the back to stay close to their beloved master, although Stylish didn't pay this any heed.

Craft's eyes widened and he lunged forward, his hand outstretched.

"Oh no you-AWK!" Kaku swung his close scissors so that the flat side slapped into Craft's face, knocking him back and stopping him from grabbing onto the chariot. Craft crashed onto his back, rolling backwards onto his feet. He was about to reach for his gun when he remembered it was lying in two pieces elsewhere, so he had to settle for glaring at Stylish, who brought his chariot to a stop with a tap for his foot all so he could once again point dramatically at Craft and smirk.

"Okay, new plan everyone; I'll go looking for some secret scientific projects to uncover. You lot beneath me, you'll make me there. Kaku, Toby, you'll deal with the Living Dead right there. And Craft…" his eye glinted with malicious excitement, "Be dealt with."

He tapped the chariot's floor and it took off again, leaving Kaku and Toby standing in front of Craft. He switched his gaze between the two of them before his expression and tone grew exasperated at the same time they tensed up to attack.

"Oh, not this tag-team bullshit again!"

The two cyborgs came at Craft at once, their smiles showing just how excited they were at the command to rip him apart.

The chariot pulled up in courtyard of the estate, Stylish hopping off in a single bound. He squared up to the building with a disgusted leer.

"Oh Victor, ever the uninspired one. Could have done something much better with this old place…"

Caught up in his fashion-driven mind set, Stylish ignored He and Mimi as they got down a lot more tentatively.

"Doctor Stylish," inquired the far-sighted one, "what is it we're looking for?"

"Anything that looks even remotely like Craft's handiwork. Speaking of which," he turned and fixed the reconnaissance units with a withering glare, "Why didn't you two tell me it was Craft before?"

The two of them grew flustered at the question, only Mimi capable of answering, "Well…we hadn't met him before. I didn't know what he sounded like."

"Or looked like," chimed in Me, "I'm sorry Doctor Stylish."

Stylish huffed in annoyance, "Well, I suppose you both have a point. Can't be helped now, and anyway, I'm sure he's little more than bloodied pieces on the grass." Stylish smiled, imagining Craft as such, his limbs and torso stacked in a pile with his head on top, done so by his Bishop and Rook in preparation for his return.

In actuality, this was proving far harder for Toby and Kaku then they had imagined.

For one thing, Craft wouldn't hold still. For as fast as Toby was, Craft was able to at least match him, whilst Kabu's beefier frame meaning he had to put in a lot of effort for the chances he got to take a swing with his scissors, each one missing completely.

Still, Craft was similarly as a disadvantage by their very advantages; Toby proved too fast for him to land any fatal hits, and he couldn't compose a good enough strategy to combat him with those all-cutting scissors increasing the risk factor and thus taking half of his attention.

Kaku growled and snipped the scissors at Craft, forcing him backwards before Toby slid from beside Kaku and slashed out as Craft as soon as he landed due to his dodging manoeuvre. Craft slashed with his sword, catching Toby's blade and knocking it aside, but this only prompted the cyborg to spin around, his other arm sprouting a blade for a second slash. Craft was able to swing his sword back in the other direction to block this as well. His reflexes failed however to stop Toby before he lifted his leg up and kicked Craft in the chest, sending him skidding backwards, tearing up the grass with his feet. A presence caught his attention as he went backwards and Craft looked behind himself to see that Kaku had defied his massive size and somehow gotten behind Craft. Swinging the scissors, Kaku attempted to slice Craft in two, but the scientist ducked down as he continued to skid back. A few wisps of hair were freed, but otherwise he was untouched.

Still, it had been a close call, and it wasn't even over yet as Toby darted forward as Kaku finished his slash, both his blades poised for another onslaught of slashes, Craft able to keep up only by the skin of his teeth to deflect them. A shadow cast overhead and Inimicus spoke to him;

"The one named Kaku is attempted an aerial attack, watch out."

Craft waited until the split second Toby took to stop his attacks to note interfere with Kaku's before dodging backwards, avoiding the scissors as they cut into the ground. But Kaku simply wrenched the blades apart, and with the edge of the weapon facing towards Craft, it forced him to use the flat of _his_ blade as a shield against his chest, launching him into the air slightly. Kaku's hand then shot out suddenly to grab Craft by the ankle, crushing around whatever passed for his body's bone. Craft grunted in pain before Kaku tugged on the limb and slammed him onto his back.

"Get him Toby!"

The other cyborg complied, jumping up into the air before coming back down at Craft, his arms crossed in front of his face to slash his blades in an X-shape.

Craft's fingers spread from his free palm and he thrust it upwards, unleashing the concussive blast from the hand's stone. It knocked the surprised Toby high into the air, Kaku grunting as he felt the aftereffect hit him and causing him to lose his grip on Craft's foot, who rolled backwards onto his feet, skipping back slightly for extra measure.

Toby landed back on the ground as Kaku wrenched the scissors out of the ground in their entirety, the former frowning and the latter gritting his teeth.

"This is getting us nowhere!"

"Doesn't that Imperial Arms of yours have some special ability or something?"

"I dunno! I only just got these things."

Craft's eyebrows peaked up.

Special ability…

"Whatever!" snapped Kaku, readying his weapon, "Let's just get him!"

He yelled and charged forward, Toby joining him after quickly rolling his eyes in exasperation. Craft gave a quick glance to his hand, flexing the fingers before looking back at the charging opponents, in particular the scissors held by Kaku. Stylish had given a good point; it was kind of hard to forget the names of Imperial Arms. And although he was present due to one, he technically wasn't physically _wielding_ an Imperial Arms.

He tensed himself in the brief moment he had to, gathering strength before swinging his sword out at Toby before he himself had a chance to attack first. Craft's swing clashed against the cyborg's twin blades and knocked him to the side as Kaku stabbed out with the scissors.

"Die you wretch!"

Craft dodged to the opposite side of where he had knocked away Toby, shooting out in his hand as the blade went by him to touch the weapon. Kaku's eyes widened in surprise as Craft yelled out a word unknown to him;

"Extase!"

"Nothing."

"Nadda."

"Zilch!"

Stylish cursed as he peaked systematically into the various rooms of the estate's family home, finding nothing that could be of importance, even as his two assistances pushed aside and wrecked furniture to help him.

After the master bedroom's mattress had been ripped open by Me, the feathers scattered feverishly by Mimi, Stylish grinded his teeth together, feeling himself grow frustrated.

"Ugh…" he clasped his chin, "If I was a drab, uninspired nutcase, where would I hide my most valuable work…"

Light suddenly burst through the windows of the bedroom, startling Stylish into averting his gaze. Mimi screamed and covered his hyper-sensitive eyes whilst Me's tamer eyesight meant she held back her curses.

"What is that?"

Shielding his eyes with a hand, Stylish turned his gaze best he could in the direction of the light's source.

"That is Extase's trump card my dear. Looks like Kaku figured out how to active it. If Craft somehow wasn't on the ropes before, he sure is now."

The intense light illuminating the entire light unnaturally, Kaku and Toby where blinded by their close proximity to the source.

"My eyes!" screamed the former, letting go of the scissor's handles to attempt to cover them. But Craft, with his eyes clamped tightly shut and directing himself forward on memory, placed his hand on Kaku's shoulder and unleashed a point blank blast from his palm. The cyborg's shoulder was sheared away by the concussive force, the arm flying away. Kaku's scream grew louder before Craft reversed the grip in his sword and stabbed it down through Kaku's other shoulder. The sheer strength of the act forced Kaku onto his knees; blindly, desperately and weakly he pawed at Craft's arm with his remaining one, but the doctor impassively twisted his blast, sending a tremor of shock through Kaku's body, reducing his saliva to froth before the sword was wrenched out to let him fall onto his chest.

Toby blinked and rubbed away the shine in his eyes, clearing his vision enough to see that, in his predicament, Craft had laid waste to his partner, and was now looking in his direction, a glint in his eye.

In the next instant, it wasn't Toby this time who darted forward with a speedy attack. The cyborg barely had time to bring one of his blades around to block Craft's downwards swing. Toby hissed in shock, bending back to the attack as Craft calmly smirked at him through the blade lock. The cyborg growled and deployed one of his secret techniques early to get rid of his aggressor; he opened his mouth and the barrel of a gun popped out directly at Craft's face. It made Craft's smile fade but it didn't surprise him enough to stop him darting his head to the side to avoid the shot. Toby broke the blade lock by lashing out with the arm involved, pushing away Craft's sword and attacking with his second blade. Craft dodged his head back from this attack as well, with his counterattacking downwards slash being faster than Toby's own, and as a result the cyborg suddenly found himself with one forearm less.

Blood spurted from the metal rimmed stump and although it was physically just an inconvenience for Toby, his eyes and his breath quickened at the shock that the man had dealt such a blow to him.

Taking advantage of his adversary's shock, Craft swung his sword back out a second time, intending to cleave the cyborg's head off. Toby glared at the incoming attack and his severed stump suddenly sprouted a blade, the point connecting with the edge of Craft's weapon and stopping it cold. Toby smirked in relief but it was frozen on his face by yet another surprise when Craft aimed the palm of his other hand over the connecting points of the blades and unleashed the concussive blast. Toby bellowed in shock as he was shoved backwards, the cloth of his now scorched metallic chest blasted to tatters. His boots skidded against the ground until he came to a merciful stop.

What wasn't merciful, however, was the damage done to his body; although he couldn't actually feel it, he could still understand it as his robotic body was now nearly unresponsive. His gears whirred together is desperation to mesh together again and he couldn't stand up from his slouching posture. All he could do was glare at Craft, who flexed the fingers of the weapon-like hand, ethereal looking smoke rising from the palm.

"What the hell…?"

"Don't look so surprised son," Craft smiled, "After all, we're both no longer what we once were."

Toby smiled with vicious rage.

"No…" he grounded out, "but I like to believe I'm a bit better."

Craft merely arched an eyebrow as he continued to smirk before darting forward and lunging forward with a stab, driving his sword straight through Toby's torso. Blood leaked from Toby's literally nerveless face, trying to twist his malfunction-impaired arm towards Craft's neck, but the scientist merely pulled the sword out a little before shoving it all the way back into Toby's chest. Toby's body bent over further against his wishes before Craft drew his leg up and knocked him onto his back with a kick, before crouching down next to him to rain down numerous more stabs into his chest. Blood leaked out from beneath the cyborg, coating the grass in a red puddle. Craft's hand was on Toby's throat, keeping him pinned throughout the entire process of rapid impalement.

Over twenty times Craft pumped the sword up and down, and it amazed him at how much blood Toby had lost and yet was still able to glare definitely up at him. Craft got to one knee, keeping his sword through Toby's body as he looked down impassively at his foe, before cracking a smile.

"Gotta say, you are _real_ sturdy."

Toby smirked right back up.

"I owe it all to the Doctor. I owe _a lot_ to the Doctor."

He struck out with his remaining arm, which Craft grabbed the wrist of before pulling his sword from Toby's body and slashing out with it to cut this arm off as well. Craft looked at the severed arm he now held and shook it as he looked back down at Toby.

"See this. _This_ is what you owe him."

"Then so be it."

Toby's foot suddenly sprouted an axe-shaped blade and his leg suddenly shot up towards him further than a human body should be able to bend and contort. Craft saw it coming out of the corner of his eye and dodged backwards, the blade taking off several snippets of his hair. Toby's other foot also popped out a blade and the cyborg was suddenly spinning around on the ground like a whirlwind, the blades from his feet slicing through the air. Craft shot back to his feet as he darted backwards to avoid getting sliced up, but his sword was less fortunate; the blade was sliced apart chunk by chunk by Toby's spinning, sparks flying at each separation. By the time Toby stopped spinning and knelt down on the ground, Craft only had a tiny sliver of his sword remaining.

He looked at which wrecked weapon in dismay before back at Toby. He had to admit; even with his missing arms, his predatory crouch and the blood running from his multitude of injuries certainly made him look quite intimidating. Not that Craft was intimidated, just feeling the disadvantage of having lost two out of his three weapons.

"_Craft, I need to tell you something."_

It was Inimicus, and Craft knew he had mentally commanded the disembodied entity not to report back unless Stylish was close to stumbling on the cavern. His eyes widened as Inimicus confirmed the worst…

…that Stylish had figured out if Craft had hidden something anywhere, it would be where he could get to it quickly. Which is why he had his Me open the door to the corridor that lead down to Craft's study.

"Ah…" Stylish smirked, hands on hips, "here we go. If there's anywhere Victor would hole himself up for his private sanctuary, it would be down there."

Mimi peered out from behind the Doctor.

"Down _there_?" she cringed apprehensively, "Looks spooky."

"Well, between the three of us, Victor was never known for his home decor skills. Just look at this whole place."

"What I mean is, couldn't it be filled with traps?"

Stylish drew back the foot he had just extended.

"Hmm…good question. Craft's never relied on simple tricks before, but then he's never come back from the dead before. Me, you see anything?"

Me peered down the corridor, leaning forward slightly as he did.

"Nothing out of the ordinary Master Stylish."

Hmm…all the same, I prefer a quick test," he smiled charmingly at Me's exposed back, "Look alive then mate!"

He gave the enhanced human a push as he turned to look around in confusion, and Me stumbled forward into the hallway with a yelp. He froze at the tension, teetering on one foot, biting his lip in preparation for anything that could jump out at him.

Nothing happened after a few moments, so Stylish straightened his coat and walked by Me with his hands behind his back and merry skip in his step. Mimi looked at her fellow enhanced being and coughed into her hand, so he straightened up, feeling a bit silly, and the two followed after their master.

_Oh shit_, thought Craft. Even though the Cavern's exact function was still a mystery to even him, Stylish's Perfector meant he could likely tamper with it regardless, and that could lead to a dire situation for him.

He had to get back there, now.

He could probably sprint back to his estate, what with his enhanced speed, but there was still the issue of Tobi. The cyborg was still seething with anger at him, looking quite demonic with blood leaking from the holes in his body, and would pounce after him the moment he would attempt to run.

He had to make sure he wouldn't come after him, and with his gun and sword in pieces, that left him with the one weapon literally in his hand.

One quick blast should finish the already battered cyborg, and then Craft would be free to dash back to stop Stylish before he could do any real damage.

But he would have to be quick, and that relied on getting Toby in a spot where he couldn't escape the area of the blast. And to do that, Craft decided to resort to a few of his more creative insults.

"Come on then you tin-headed twerp; you want me, I'm ready," Craft brought his fists up, and Toby took the provocation. He grinned hatefully, spat out a clump of blood and charged at Craft. The barrel of the gun peaked back out to fire at the scientist, who dodged his head to the side, smirking as he did. A blade popped out of Toby's left arm stump, drawn back and ready for a strike. Craft was ready with his own however, thrusting out his open palm, the stone within it glowing brightly. Toby's eyes widened in horror as he realized Craft had lured him into a situation he had no time to escape.

And Craft knew it to, if his soft, satisfied smile was anything to believe.

"Gotcha."

CRACKUNTCH

The first thing to go through Craft's mind was; _hang on, that's not the sound my hand-cannon makes_.

The second was the realisation that his arm had been seized in the middle by a massive metal hand, and from the sensation gained, the action had snapped his arm apart, if not completely mushed its insides. Craft didn't have time to worry about that however, as the broken limb was suddenly torn off, blood spewing from his stump. Craft looked at it, somehow more bewildered than shocked, then at the one who had disarmed him.

Kaku grinned broadly shaking Craft's arm about.

"Flimsy little man," he drawled, "Thought you'd be built tougher if you were able to put me down for that long."

He cast his eyes down at the massive wound in his shoulder, a line of sight that was shared with Toby, who regained some of his lucidity at his ally returning.

"I thought you were out for the count Kaku."

"So did I," the beefy one chuckled, "but I guess I'm tougher than even I knew."

"That's the Doctor for you," nodded Toby, "So let us both repay him by finishing what this one started."

"Agreed. And this time I'm not using those tacky scissors to do the job. After all…" his grinned grew as vicious as Toby's as he cracked his metal knuckles, "We don't want him to die _too_ quickly on us."

So they were going to drag this out? Make his suffering last? Craft rolled his eyes.

Typical.

_Craft, Stylish is nearly upon the cavern_, Inimicus warned.

…and even more so.

Craft sagged. No weapons, no time, no way to get out of this. These two were going to kill him, and if Stylish tampered with the cavern, he wouldn't be able to…

Revive there.

Craft lifted his gaze back towards the two brutalized cyborgs and a thin smile spread across his mouth. It was sudden enough to make the two of them stop in their tracks.

"Can I ask you two something; you were criminals, right, before all…" he gestured with his remaining hand, "This?"

Toby frowned, "Yeah."

Craft snorted, "Yeah, I gathered as much. That's how he always got his lab rats."

Kaku snorted, "Sticks and stones pal, sticks and stones."

"Oh, no, you misunderstand; _he's_ the one who coined the phrase for you lot."

A tremor went through Toby's body and his smile lessened.

"Yep," Craft winced in faux-sympathy, "he told me so himself. A dime a dozen he liked to brag about."

"I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working."

"No?" Craft titled his head to the side, "Well you can believe whatever you like, but I know what Stylish believes in, and let me tell you it starts and ends with how many bottom-feeders he can get by telling a few fibs about freedom and purpose."

"Cool it boy," Kaku warned, seeing the bubbling spite in Toby rising, "Remember, we want to take our sweet time with this fool."

Craft suddenly sauntered over to Toby, leering directly at the cyborg's face.

"The only thing Stylish has ever needed from you lot is to be a nice, helpless, rat, ready for the slicing. That…and a pretty little _thing_."

Toby lost it.

As Kaku yelled in protest, his blade shot out, shone in the moonlight, and cut into Craft's face.

"Yes!" Stylish cried as he saw what lay within Craft's study; the legless table. Something that out of place was clearly being used to cover something up, and Stylish was all too happy to move it to the side.

"Me, Mimi, move this thing out of the way, quick!"

"Yes sir!" the two intoned, before the crouched down and pushed on the edge of the table. Their shared feeling to soaring usefulness faded when they found their efforts ineffective, the table staying firmly where it was. Stylish looked on, still smiling.

"Kiddies…is there something is the matter?"

"No!" Me answered, very quickly, "We're just…" he gaze another push on the table, but like before, it didn't move.

"Me…Mimi…" Stylish said, very slowly, "I am a hair's breath away from finding out the secret of my rival's final creation, one that I know for a fact drained resources from funds across the Empire, but I find myself impeded by a certain two people's inability to move a simple table. Now, I try not to get angry, _but_…"

"Wait, Doctor Stylish!" Me implored, "I missed something! Look!"

He gestured at the edges of the table, and Stylish saw a ring of studs facing upwards around them.

The table had been _nailed_ down.

"Ah. Oh course, Craft really doesn't half-ass anything. And speaking of which, Me, why didn't you see these before?"

The Doctor had to try very hard not to scream it, but the words still made Me flinch.

"I'm sorry Doctor…I didn't have time to…we were just so eager to…"

Stylish pinched his forefingers and thumb together and traced it quickly through the air, silencing Me.

"Move. The both of you. Now."

Incredibly cowed, Me and Mimi shuffled to the side as Stylish crouched by the table. He flexed his gloved fingers and got to work, using the added flexibility and precision of the Imperial Arm gloves to work his thin human nails between the tops of the instrumental nails, prying them free. One-by-one they popped off, until one remained.

"Finally," breathed Stylish, gripping the nail head, "Let's see what you've done down there Victor."

He yanked the last nail up and Craft suddenly smashed up through the table, throwing shards of wood into the air where he himself was now suspended. Stylish's smile froze as he found himself looking at Craft's open palm, and the white glow of the stone within it.

At first, Kaku had just been annoyed as Toby having struck down Craft when they had intended to take their time ripping him apart.

But then he had grown shocked as he saw what happened to the corpse with the bisected face.

It had suddenly combusted with no sound at all, turning into ash from first its head before the effect spread across his body. Soon, only an outline of ash remained.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, "What was that?"

The surprise had shaken Toby out of his wrath and he was as equalled stunned, "I don't know. Maybe Doctor Stylish will if we explain-"

A distant explosion reached their eyes and they whipped around in the direction of its origin.

"That's where Doctor Stylish went!" Kaku exclaimed in panic, "He might be in trouble! We must get there."

Toby was about to vocalize his agreement was something caught his attention; a metallic glint in the darkness of the forest.

"…hey…"

A burning yellow beam shot out, striking him in and through the forehead. The cyborg was dead in an instance and Kaku watched his corpse was flung backwards before breaking into a panic, searching for where the shot came from.

This meant he didn't look up at the figure pouncing towards him from the darkness until they had brought both fists down onto his skull, crushing it into his body and his body into his legs, grotesquely compacting him.

The figure stood over her kill, cracking her furry knuckles before looking in the direction of the estate, a glint in her eye.

The world was blurred as Stylish came back after his split second unconsciousness. He felt lighter somehow and there was ringing in his ears. He craned his neck up to see the outline of someone, Me perhaps, charge towards someone else, only for the man's throat to get grabbed and simultaneously crushed by the person he had been running at. It was as his body toppled back that Stylish was able to see the second person.

Now his vision cleared and he saw it was Craft, who observed his handiwork impassively; the right side of Stylish's torso had been blown away along with the same side of his face, his eye socket containing a pulverized eye. His right arm had been dislocated by the impact and it hung grotesquely to compliment the damage done to him.

Looking up at him now, Stylish had enough clarity now for a new emotion to seep over him; fear. It was almost like he was only now truly seeing what Craft was, here, standing before him now.

A dead man.

His hand fumbled into his coat pocket, grasping for the one thing that could keep him alive now but as soon as he had drawn out the tiny vial of liquid, Craft's foot shot out and pinned the hand to the wall. Keeping his foot on the wrist, Craft reached out and picked up a splintered piece of the table, a stake with a jagged edge. He held it ready like a knife, taking the time to remove a few stray flakes with his thumbnail before turning his gaze on Stylish. It was a calm and content look, with no flicker of mercy.

Stylish was done for. His years of research and experimentation had failed to save him. So he could only ask, "What is it?"

Craft leaned closer until they were faced-to-face, and he brought the stake up.

"Mine."

The spray of blood from Stylish's throat decorated the wall as the stake moved. Stylish felt blood on his lips as he leered up in his death throes at Craft, whose own expression remained unchanged, before he slashed stake back a second time across Stylish's nose, shredding it.

A thrice and forth time the stake was slashed as the same speed, before Craft decided to give in and unleashed a rain of cuts upon Stylish's face. He didn't stop until Stylish looked like a rabid rat swarm had taken to his face. Blood was flicked outwards, decorating the walls on either side of Craft, until a stray speck landed on his face. It was then Craft decided to stop, looking down at the remnants of Stylish's face as blood poured from it.

He felt…different. Although maybe not different as what he felt wasn't alien but instead…familiar. Like a weight not just taken from his shoulders…

"_Master?"_

Craft shook his head a little and blinked, "Inimicus. Sorry, zoned out for a minute," he looked down at Stylish's form, "Can you tell if…?"

"_He is dead. Likely at the moment you first cut him."_

"…I wanted to be sure."

Craft straightened up, taking his foot from Stylish's wrist to let it slump down, the vial it limply held clattering to the ground.

In turn, this prompted Mimi, who had been huddled against the wall in horror, to finally bolt, gasping in terror as she did. Craft watched her run out of his study out of the corner of his eye and breathed out calmly through his nose.

Mimi ran out the corridor, through the main hall and out into the courtyard, where Stylish's chariot of linked Pawns was stationed, the collection unit turning to look at her.

"He's killed Stylish!" she screamed as she ran for them, "He's…!"

Half a plank of wood sailed forward and struck her in the back of the head with enough force to penetrate the bone and skewer her brain. Mimi's cries turned into a strangled rasp as she crashed forward onto her face.

Craft stood in the open doors, his arm outstretched after completing his throw. The living components of the chariot looked at Mimi's corpse before back at Craft, who lowered his arm as their bodies trembled with rage.

Not at the death of the big-eared woman, but the one of their beloved body alternator Stylish. They stood up, the platform they collectively held separating into a square piece for each of them, the eight surrounding the middle straining in different directions with vein covered muscles until the chains binding them together snapped. Now free, they turned towards Craft, brandishing their iron claws.

Craft lifted his head, looking at his nine new foes. The feeling that had come upon killing Stylish remained, holding him like a fine blanket and giving everything around him a calming air. So when the first Pawn came at him, claws poised for a strike, it was with complete calmness that he shot his hand out, smashing his open palm into the Pawn's chest before firing off the cannon. The pulverized remains of the Pawn splattered over its brethren, who all had little time to react before Craft came at them all. The second to die at his hands did so literally, as he swung a punch so hard he felt it fragment its skull, and then the third got its throat torn out as he slashed out with his fingers.

The forth pawn came at Craft from the side, but the doctor ducked beneath its attempted grab, manoeuvring around to stand behind it. Grabbing the back of its head, Craft smashed it face-first into another of its kin, brutally merging their faces together whilst shattering both their masks. The elbow that Craft lashed out with to counter the Pawn coming at him from behind collided with its chin with enough force to snap its neck, before he brought the same arm back around to aim at the seventh Pawn, blowing it away with his cannon. Still holding the head of the limp Pawn, Craft grabbed its wrist and, using it like a perverse marionette, slashed out its limp hand so that the claws sliced through the stomach of the eight Pawn, causing its guts to spill out onto the ground.

Craft finally released the limb Pawn and turned to the last one. He didn't know if Stylish had left the ability to feel fear in the minds of his Pawns, but he had a feeling the lobe for it was still in there, judging by how this Pawn seemed to shake at facing him alone.

Well, he wouldn't let it stew in fear for long, he decided.

He marched towards the Pawn, catching its wrist as it slashed with a claw. A quick squeeze and the wrist broke. The same thing happened to the other hand's wrist when it attempted a second attack, and with both its means of attack ruined, Craft was free to grab both sides of its head and squeeze. It took only a few seconds for blood to leak out from beneath the mask and from the ears and a few seconds longer before one last crack came from the Pawn's head.

Craft held his victim for a few seconds more before dropping it. He observed the corpse before craning his head back and breathing out into the sky.

Well…that had been quite the venture, but a couple dozen dead augmented humans and more significantly a brutalized ex-college scientist told him it had been worth it.

"One down…" he murmured to himself.

"_There are more."_

"Yes…and I will get to them all."

"_No. There are more. Here. Other people are here."_

Craft's eyes snapped open, "What? Where?"

"_A couple on the outskirts. They aren't moving though. And there's one coming this way."_

"Jaegers?"

"_I do not think so, but I advise caution."_

"…Where is the approaching one now?"

"…_In the courtyard. To your left."_

Craft turned his head. At first, he saw nothing. But then his eyes picked something out. A shimmering of sorts, in a human outline.

An eternity passed before the outline got the hint that Craft knew they were there. Still, it wasn't until he put his hands up and turned to face the figure that they straightened up, cancelling out their invisibility.

Another old memory resurfaced as he calmly observed the armoured figure, memories of an Imperial Arm that took the form of full body armour with the ability of invisibility and who wielded it.

This wasn't the Jaegers.

This was their opposite.


End file.
